


The Stranger in the Woods

by DeepBlueSkies



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Along with some lore, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Archery, Attempted Kidnapping, Catra and Double Trouble have a strange bond, Commander Catra, Death, Double Trouble is a gremlin, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fate, Fluff, I know it sounds weird, Medium Burn, Mutual Pining, My own version of what Medieval Etheria would look like, Other characters too but mostly in passing, Protective Catra, Rogue Catra, Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra)'s A+ Parenting, Swordfighting, Torture, Unresolved Romantic Tension, actually slowish burn, can you tell i love catra, princess adora - Freeform, strangers to lovers to enemies to lovers, theyre lesbians harold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23274157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeepBlueSkies/pseuds/DeepBlueSkies
Summary: When Lady Weaver sends Catra on a diplomatic voyage on Lord Hordak's behalf, she has no idea of the chasm she's about to cross. But there's a catch-- Lady Weaver wants Catra to secretly kidnap Princess Adora of Bright Moon in order to get to King Grayskull. Meanwhile, Adora longingly resides in Castle Bright Moon, fantasizing about the adventures and possibilities waiting beyond the horizon. Their destinies will intertwine-- but can they make it beyond the stars?There will be betrayal, dances, masquerades, lots of gay, and most of all...Double Trouble. They're so sassy and I love them.OR: The Medieval Etheria AU that absolutely nobody asked for.Rated M for mentions of torture, minor gore (not really but better safe than sorry), and steamy but not NSFW scenes.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 147





	1. The Stranger in the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings,
> 
> I started this fun little project about a month ago and I've had this chapter finished for some time...however I am evil and decided to release it at an unholy hour. I wanted to add my own contribution to the medieval AU's out there and this is what popped out of my head. I hope you enjoy! :)
> 
> Huge shoutout to Nuttyshake for being an awesome beta and putting up with my bullshit, because that's a LOT. :^)
> 
> TW: Mentions of torture, death, but nothing graphic! Just being considerate :)

The sea is relentless during the summer solstice. Barrages of swelling energy crash against the caravel ship; waves channel the fury of a storm, and each person aboard is soaked in a salty mist. They sail against the wind, each gust stronger and more forceful than the last. The tide would soon hit the high note of its chaotic melody—one final crescendo.

At the least, Catra silently thanks Entrapta's underappreciated ingenuity for the sturdy and robust work of art sheltering her from a cold, watery grave. She makes a note: remember to bring Entrapta an unhealthy abundance of tiny food. 

The carvel-built ship boasts two goliath masts, which support four equally intimidating lateen sails. Entrapta built others in the past, but none revolutionized the implications of breakneck and safeguarded travel like this world-altering stroke of genius. Though her prior iterations of the modern marvel were lighter and quicker, the cargo capabilities were suboptimal at best. It would have taken four clinker-built ships to transport the equivalent load of its larger, more refined counterpart.

Entrapta failed on numerous occasions— most of her primitive models sank as soon as the base hit the water. Of course, Entrapta knew better than to waste precious materials on what could have been a massive experimental failure. Her obsession with tiny food was the inspiration— why not run trials with tiny ships? Though she would have to reconfigure the schematics and arithmetic to the proper proportions, it was the best way to conserve resources. And it was precisely why she succeeded in her perilous voyage through a barren desert of discarded diagrams until she'd at last found her own fertile, thriving oasis.

After years of plotting, sketching, and whatever other preparations the purple-haired prodigy deemed necessary, she succeeded. Scorpia insisted on handling the aesthetics of it all— hence why most decorative trimmings were carved from sapele mahogany. In Catra's language, that meant red. Scorpia's justifications were something along the lines of 'but Wildcat, red is a power color!' and other numerous nonsensical reasons (though Catra reluctantly admitted that the red added a nice touch). The planked exteriors of the unofficially named _Wildcat_ were cut from dark oak. All in all, in the words of Scorpia, the caravel looked 'exquisite and aesthetically pleasing.' 

There are only three ships in the world of this caliber, all engineered in the Kingdom of Shadows, also informally dubbed the 'Fright Zone.' And for now, or until she decides otherwise, this ship belongs to Commander Catra.

The commander slicks her shaggy hair back, as she has been doing every two minutes, courtesy of the annoyingly persistent wind she's been sailing against for the past few hours. It's a troublesome delay she can't afford, but Catra can't exactly file a grievance against the _ocean_. Or, perhaps she could— who knows. 

Oak planks creak beneath her battle-worn leather boots as she shoves her way to the ship's helm, a hand gripping the hilt on one of her swords and the other adjusting her charcoal cloak. She grabs a battered, brass scope off one of her crewmen, then climbs a thick rope ladder. Catra supports her weight with one arm and sets her sights on the ship's final destination; they're close. 

(Catra has secretly wanted to do something like this since the time she found a worn-out book in her caretaker's study. The page contained a drawing of a sea captain on a smaller boat, of course, doing exactly what she's doing now.) 

Catra leaps from her perch and directs her crew with the swiftness of a hawk swooping down on its first hunt of the day. Upon overseeing final docking preparations, she descends a set of stairs to her private quarters and shakes her hair of the seawater that had so graciously drenched her wild mane. A polished, gold object reflecting a gleam of light at the edge of a wooden table catches her blue and amber eyes; she picks up the compass and bitterly admires its craftsmanship. Once upon a time, the relic was a gift from her former mentor, an alleged witch, and also Lord Hordak's most trusted advisor, Lady Weaver. Now, the compass is a reminder. She furrows her brow, and a cavernous sigh escapes her once pressed lips; the memento brings back haunting memories. 

Catra removes her maroon tunic, her back a canvas painted, stained with red streaks of a war-torn past, covered in blemishes and scars. Some she received in battle— it is an inevitable part of her duty as a soldier. Others she received from training and 'resilience conditioning,' as Lady Weaver called it. Catra tosses the tunic aside, removes her boots, and trades white breeches for black ones. 

Catra slips on a beige quarter-sleeved, form-fitting undershirt and dons a brown sleeveless tunic that extends to around the upper half of her thighs. She fastens a tan leather belt around her waist, then another, with weapon holsters, at her hips. Her ensemble concludes with the addition of sturdy brown boots, black leather gauntlets, and fingerless gloves. It is simple but functional and all but ensures she would blend in when her mission begins; bulky armor would attract undesired attention. 

Diplomatic affairs have always been a bore to Commander Catra. She much prefers the perilous thrill of gallantly weaving through clashing steel and scorching arrowheads as she shreds through her armored enemies with unmatched swordsmanship. Since her loss at the Battle of Thaymor, however, she had been relegated to leading fewer frontline missions and more, well, _boring_ ones. Lord Hordak was furious that she inadvertently lured many of their forces into enemy territory so bluntly designed for an ambush. That was the first time the commander was outwitted. 

Her impulsive nature gained the better of her in that skirmish— a marksman in a dark green hood managed to hit a weak point in her chest plate and pierced her left shoulder. The man flashed a smug, triumphant grin before retreating into the woods. The commander did not hesitate. She rode deeper into enemy terrain in pursuit of the man who dared taunt her, unaware that her troops had followed. It was then Catra realized it was a trap. 

The marksman wanted Catra to pursue, intended to weaponize her fiery reputation against her, and counted on her army's loyalty to rally behind her. Out of the hundred soldiers the commander brought, only 32 made it back alive. The rest were killed in action or captured. Catra herself almost perished; the wound on her shoulder hindered her fighting ability. She was losing blood, not enough to kill her but enough to exhaust her. Head bowed, she sounded the retreat, and the battle was lost. 

And now here she is, stuck on a 'diplomatic' mission, to deliver grain and silk to the Kingdom of Bright Moon, home to the absolute weakest king she has ever seen and his only daughter, Princess Adora. Catra walks up the stairs and steps foot on deck as she prepares to venture onto the mainland. The obnoxiously bright castle grows as they near the harbor; the real quest would begin soon. See, though the diplomatic mission is not entirely a lie, it is also a smokescreen for something far more sinister. 

_Following Catra's defeat in Thaymor, Lady Weaver suggested demoting the young commander. Lord Hordak had something harsher in mind. He rose from his throne and stalked over to the kneeling commander like a lion going in for the kill. Catra would have been a fool for not expecting something awful. But the moment she felt a jagged thumb press deep into her still bleeding wound, she realized the worst had yet to come. As Catra remained frozen in agony, resisting the urge to howl, the Lord motioned two of his bodyguards into the throne room and ordered them to imprison her in The Garnet. She didn't struggle when they slapped the shackles around her wrists._

_The Garnet is a purgatory no rational person would ever wish upon another; it's where vital prisoners of war are taken for interrogation. It's where the will to live comes to die. And it's where Catra drowned a thousand times over for Etheria knows how long, until she swore she had been dead for some time, trapped in a conjured personal Hell designed to break her spirit for all eternity._

_There was only one thing Catra feared more than drowning._

_She feared being helpless._

_Catra feared losing control. She wanted to fight for her right to live. She had tried to prove her worth. But she couldn't. Not with burly arms pinning back her hands. Not with the blindfold obscuring her vision. Not in her famished, weakened state. Not when she was condemned from the start; she was never meant to succeed._

_Catra wished for the end. Let her at least enjoy her final moments; let the last thing she ever felt be nothing at all. She reflexively took a breath through her nose and felt a dull sting between her eyes._

_Please, make it stop._

_She'd been pulled out._

_A quick breath—_

_Her head was underwater again. This had to be it, the end— right? Her lungs were on fire. It wouldn't be much longer._

_If this is life, why do people fight so hard for it? Why do the pitiful souls that hang from the gallows fruitlessly struggle against the inevitable, calm blackness? If death is nothingness, why are people so determined to outrun it when feeling nothing is better than, well,_ this?

_A hand aggressively pulled her by the hair and jerked her head out of the icy water. The ice had melted hours ago._

_She wished for death. Unfortunately, she survived._

_Her torment ceased after what felt like a century. It had only been two days. Lord Hordak ordered his guards to escort her back into the throne room. Catra's hands were chained in front of her. It was a type of humiliation reserved only for those Lord Hordak deemed colossal failures. She expected the merciless Lord to make an example of her any moment now._

_The public display of punishment never came. Instead, Lord Hordak proposed another idea._

_"Commander Catra, rise," he said, his face devoid of any and all emotion. Catra's legs wobbled as she stood and then, though subtly, puffed out her chest through sunken eyes and cracked lips in a mock display of courage._

_Lady Weaver emerged from behind the crimson throne and looked down upon the disheveled girl. "Commander Catra. You will take one of our carracks and deliver goods to the Kingdom of Bright Moon," she boomed, "And you will present this as a, well, peace offering to their King."_

_Catra's face scrunched as her eyes shifted from Lady Weaver to Hordak. "My Lord?"_

_"Do not address Lord Hordak without permission, you insolent fool! I dare you to do it again. I would gladly rip your tongue from your pathetic little muzzle, and have you wear it around your neck like the animal you are while I march you through the streets and watch even mere peasants look down upon you," Lady Weaver bellowed. Catra's shoulders tensed. She took a deep breath and hardened her gaze._

_"And what, may I ask, is my true objective, Lady Weaver?" Catra asked, "I reckon I'm not going deep into enemy territory simply to gain an audience with a poor excuse for a ruler."_

_Lady Weaver's eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms, "You, Catra, by whatever means necessary, will scout the kingdom for weaknesses. You will gather as much intel on The Great Fortress as you can. You will not return home until you succeed. Then, we will wrest control of Bright Moon and rule over both kingdoms in the name of Lord Hordak!"_

_Catra concealed her bewilderment with a placating smile and nod as her fists clenched beneath her iron shackles. In truth, she didn't know how to react. On the one hand, the mission was of significant importance—the fate of their coveted conquest would rest squarely on her shoulders. Gathering intel and using it to plan the most successful invasion yet was the perfect opportunity to regain Lord Hordak's favor as one of his top commanders. It was also the ideal way to defy Lady Weaver while still ensuring victory for her kingdom; it would be a win-win if she prevailed._

_On the other hand, espionage required patience. Espionage required playing the long game. And Lady Weaver made it clear that until she finds some sort of success, she is forbidden from returning. While she had no qualms with being strategic, certain circumstances showcased just how thin her patience and restraint could be. She would be at the heart of the enemy and yet could not lay a single finger on any of them. Her love for the adrenaline rush of battle would have to wait._

Catra snaps out of her rumination when the crew drops the anchors. The deep, booming roar of dense metal crashing into water signals the start of her quest. She grabs her satchel of supplies and boards a compact rowboat with several others. As the loud commotion of restless sailors roars around her, Catra loses herself in the soothing sound of oars gliding fluidly over dark water. She takes a deep breath. Failure isn't an option.

—

A young boy with a bycocket on his blonde head journeys through the outskirts of Bright Moon castle with a sword in hand. The white and lavender behemoth shines as a beacon of hope, for it is also known as The Great Fortress. The informal title carries a reputation— the castle has never been breached. The only way in is through two drawbridges in the front and rear, each suspended over a moat with many protruding, razor-sharp rocks. 

The young boy, wearing a white tunic with brown breeches and black knee-high boots, makes his way into a dense forest and approaches a set of wooden posts covered in slash marks. He sets the sword down and pulls out a recurve bow strapped to his back. 

_Feet shoulder-width apart, arms straight. Draw. Nock. Don't pull on the fletching; let the fletching become part of you. Feel the raw, pent up energy. Keep both eyes open. Aim. Steady your hand; hold your breath. Release._

A miss.

The arrow flies past the boy's intended target. With crinkled eyes and a pronounced sigh, he tosses the recurve bow aside. He stares at the post, then the sword; he brings his hands up to remove his hat and the tie holding his hair inside. His long blonde hair falls down to his mid-back, and the boy is actually no boy at all— a slender, well-built woman grabs her silky hair and ties it up in a messy updo. Her blue-eyed gaze shifts to the sword; she picks it up and shuffles over to the wooden post.

"Why did I think this was going to be _easy_ ," Adora mutters to herself as she expertly twirls the sword in her hand. Adora takes a swing. Then, she takes another, her form that of a swan elegantly coasting over a lake. She pauses to catch her breath.

"Are you really already tired, Adora? Seriously?" she asks herself, "You would perish in a real fight if you are this worn already!" 

Adora has been sneaking off to this part of the woods to train in secret for years. Though she asked the captains and knights to teach her, and though they helped her with basic form and technique, they were hesitant to instruct any further. It's too dangerous for someone as valuable as yourself to be out on the battlefield, they would say. It wasn't that they didn't think she was capable. She was tenacious and very well physically conditioned, besting most of the castle knights. She was athletically built and showed natural talent when she first picked up the sword. But Bright Moon has enemies. Dangerous, spiteful enemies. And the King loves Adora so much that, if she were ever to be captured or leveraged, it would spell doom for the peaceful kingdom. 

So she did the only thing she could; she privately requested a sword from the castle blacksmith and had the seamstress stitch her garments with more mobility. And better colors. She learned the hard way that it was far easier to maneuver in trousers than it was a dress. And if anyone were ever to stumble upon her training in the forest, her disguise would ensure she remained undiscovered— no one would question a young knight-in-training practicing swordplay in the woods. With limited mentorship, she took to learning through observation. She watched when knights and soldiers sparred one another and then drilled the moves she saw that same day to keep them fresh in her memory. With time, patience, and grit rivaling even the finest Etherian steel, she nearly mastered the sword. Not that she would ever see the battlefield. 

Adora thrusts her blade into the ground and reaches for the recurve bow she tossed aside. She's determined to hit her mark, even if she needs to stay until nightfall to do so. Adora takes an arrow from her quiver, positions herself, and draws.

_WHOOSH_

The arrow hits the post. Just not Adora's target. She draws again.

—

The first thing the commander notices about Bright Moon is the pain radiating through her eye sockets as a result of how _obnoxiously_ _bright_ everything is. Where bunkers in the Kingdom of Shadows are a dull shade of gray, green, or blue, the structures in Bright Moon are pearl white, lavender, or yellow—a noticeably stark contrast. The next thing she notices is the gentle whisper of a fresh, crisp ocean breeze tickling every strand of hair on her skin. The disparity between the polluted haze back home and the clean, untainted air of the annoyingly cheerful Bright Moon puzzles her. Catra doesn't understand how the difference came about, but she won't dwell on it— she'll allow herself this one luxury. 

She steps off the wooden dock and onto a stone path. Lady Weaver's orders were explicit —Catra is to meet an informant in the woods who would lead her to a safe house and lend her a horse. She assumes the contact is an operative whose only objective is reporting economic progress; the best time to strike a kingdom is when its coffers, and thereby morale, are low. 

Catra hikes along the path for a few miles. At some point, the solid stone beneath her boots became a trail of packed dirt. She's enjoyed every second of her trek so far—being stuck on a ship for over two days opened her eyes to how much she took solid ground for granted. That would never happen again. 

The landscape is flat and the forest lush, teeming with life of all shapes and sizes; home will never be quite like this, she thinks. In fact, home had never really felt like home at all. It was a place to eat, a refuge. Somewhere to sleep, bask in an illusion of peace and tranquility when her world had always been ablaze. Catra doesn't know what home means. 

Catra almost feels guilty, disrupting the verdant quietude. It's so eerily silent that it almost seems as if the forest exists in a timeless dimension of its own. Catra could practically hear her blood pumping in her veins, hear each and every muscle fiber and tendon beneath her skin flexing, stretching with each movement. 

In a flash, she's in her battle stance, her hand settled on the hilt of her sword.

And then, the snap of a twig.

It wasn't her imagination—someone was watching her.

A tall, slender figure shrouded in black garments, and a dark green cloak, materializes from the shadows. The person signs a secret code and beckons her over beneath a large tree. Catra recognizes the gestures and responds to the call without hesitation; this is her contact.

"Took you quite a while to show up, darling," the figure says, "I was beginning to think you were caught before you even began." The lanky figure flashes a cunning grin, revealing canines sharper than knives.

Catra shifts her weight onto her back leg and places a hand on her hip. "Heh. Is there something so wrong about enjoying myself while I'm here?" she asks, "These forests are richer than any noble I've ever met. No wonder everyone here looks so annoyingly healthy," Catra scoffs, then, "Fortunate assholes." 

Catra's (currently) nameless informant leans against the tree and picks at splintering bark. "I never took you for the complimenting type, Commander," they say playfully, "If taking a saunter through the forest has you this soft already, I reckon your odds of success just hit a lower point. Best not to get _too attached_." 

Catra scoffs at the notion. Attachment? The single attachment she has ever needed—will ever need—is securely saddled at her side, a loyal companion whose only failures would ever rest on her own shoulders. Self-reliance is the only constant she's ever known. Still, though she'd sooner yield to Lady Weaver than admit it, Catra can appreciate just how charming Bright Moon's mystical allure could be. Something about the kingdom brings her an odd sense of longing— like some unknown force is steering her not toward a series of mundane uncertainties, but toward where she _ought_ to be. 

Catra only prays she could understand why.

She takes two cautious, calculating steps toward the shrouded figure. "Attached—what, do you take me for an idiot?" she says, her eyes scrutinizing as if there was something she forgot to ask. "You also haven't given me your name. What do I call you?" Her lips curl. "Unless you would _like_ me to come up with something to call you."

The green-cloaked phantom twirls the garment and begins walking deeper into the woods with an annoyed Catra in pursuit. "If I give you my real name, then everything I am doing here would be pointless," the figure says, then traces a bony finger across their hollowed cheek down to their sharp chin. "But, if you so insist, you may call me DT." 

Catra shrugs, and then, "Alright then, DT. Is that supposed to be some kind of secret name?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret, now would it?"

Catra brings a finger to her temple and scratches for a second. She stares at the tree canopy above. "No. No, I suppose not."

The duo slogs through the rest of the journey in an unspoken yet mutually agreed upon silence. Catra's hands clench and twitch at her sides as she unwillingly dwells on a chilling confrontation, one which detailed the _other_ lesser-known, less desirable aspect of her mission.

_She had been making final preparations when she sensed an abrupt, frosty disturbance in the air. Lady Weaver had appeared in her peripheral vision. As she lingered on the rundown dock, Catra's hands began to tremble; a slithering aura coiled itself around her throat, any possible sense of relief crushed beneath the weight of the events she knew to come._

_It had become a habitual reaction, an involuntary reflex, to encountering her supposed caretaker. Catra feigned ignorance— perhaps if she paid no attention to the hag, she'd be spared another scolding. The sound of deliberately intimidating footsteps growing louder proved otherwise._

_"Catra," Weaver said, "Please, follow me." Catra followed Lady Weaver as the witch stalked over to a secluded part of the shore. Whatever the woman was about to say must have been of utmost importance— and confidential._

_"It is surprising, I know, but I have one more task for you, Commander," the advisor spit, "You will bring me Princess Adora of Bright Moon, daughter of King Grayskull. And you will find a way to keep this matter under lock and key." The shadow-haired woman pressed her hands together as if she had been clinging to her last fickle remnants of power._

_Catra cocked her head and sneered at the woman. "Why would I do that? If I remember correctly, and I do, Lord Hordak said nothing about—"_

_"You will bring me the princess. Return without results, and The Garnet will be a paradise compared to what I will do to you. You will suffer the consequences in her place. Is that understood?" Lady Weaver's soulless glare nearly sent Catra tumbling as the young woman realized she had been unconsciously backing away._

_"Now, child, there's no need for fear here. Have the years taught you nothing of my mercy? I trust that my teachings will bring you to glory." A corpse-like hand cupped Catra's cheek, leaving a phantom trail of shadow tendrils laced with venomous dread so potent they could stain her insides for a lifetime, if not longer. She clasped her right hand around her left bracer, anxiously twisting it back and forth along her wrist._

_"Go on now, dear. Bring me the Princess. Bring our kingdom to victory. I trust you will not disappoint me."_

_"Yes. U-Understood."_

Catra wants to fling that woman from the peak of the tallest mountain in Etheria. 

—

"This— this thing has a mind of its own!" she shrieks as the horse continues to stand on its two hind legs as if to ward off an invader. While Catra would never willingly ride a horse for sport, she finds them a necessary utility in battle and on journeys that would otherwise be too much of a pain in her ass to carry out on foot. 

This is, without a shred of doubt, one of those missions.

"I permit you to use this as a base of operations of sorts, so you don't have to keep making camp or finding places to sleep," says DT, "But please, do keep it neat. Contrary to my chaotic reputation, I am rather fond of organized places. I find that a clear space serves for a clear mind."

The commander rolls her eyes. "Alright, alright. You have my—my gratitude. I appreciate it," she says as she pulls the reins taut and seizes control of the horse, "I should be on my way. Best to do as much as I can before nightfall." 

"I fare thee well, Commander," DT says with a devilish grin, "And, do heed my warning, darling: Don't get attached."

Catra scoffs, "I'd sooner die first."

—

A plethora of arrows litter the ground around the wooden posts; each fletching she sees is a bitter reminder of her failure. Adora's vision fogs over as a suffocating pressure constricts the insides of her chest. She's desperate for a gluttonous gulp of air but is instead met with an uncontrollable waver in her breath. Her hands shake beneath her emotionally charged convulsions. Why can't she reliably hit her target? Is it her posture, her eyesight? Is her bow defective, her aim steady? 

Adora considers another attempt until a tidal wave of doubt coerces her arms limp at her sides; a marionette had more control than she has now. Adora has no mentor and no partner; she has no one to critique her, challenge her, or encourage her. Adora used to think her home within the confines of chiseled stone and polished marble was lonely. Now, Adora realizes no matter how high she climbs, no matter how far she manages to go, she'd be alone in her triumph. It would be a hollow victory—unless Adora chooses to reveal herself and the activities she's been hiding for years. Adora settles down on her haunches and vacantly focuses on the area near the posts once more. 

_Please, I just— I just want to get better._

If she had someone who could tell her what to do, then perhaps maybe— 

The faint sound of galloping hooves a small distance away interrupts her sulking. She clumsily grabs her sword and recurve bow and presses her back against a broad tree— the noise grows louder with each step. Her hat is too far to reach without giving her position away. Adora prays that she goes unnoticed. No, she can't _just_ pray— she needs a plan. The tree can't provide her cover forever. She needs a better hiding spot, fast. Her darting gaze scans her surroundings; the nearest tree is at least fifteen feet away, and none of the bushes nearby could hide her muscular frame. She's anxiously rubbing her hands together when she tilts her head back to take a deep breath and then— 

_I can climb this tree._

She can climb the tree. Can she climb the tree? Can she climb _this_ tree? The hooves grow louder, although they do seem to be slowing down. She needs to act now. Adora has two options: she can lunge for her hat and pray that her now disheveled hair cooperates, or; she can strap her weapons to her back and hope that her years of rigorous training blessed her with enough mental fortitude to climb this damn tree. The stranger can't be more than fifty feet away now. 

She's out of time.

— 

Much to her amusement, Catra and her horse have formed a sort of symbiotic relationship. Since their departure, the majestic creature had ceased its violent bucking and kicking, to her relief. She has no need to tug on the reins much anymore— she and the horse are virtually telepathically linked. 

_This horse is mine now. Sorry, DT. Actually, no, I'm not._

Rather than wasting time fixing her hair every time the wind tousled it around, Catra decides to conserve her energy and simply ride along. She hasn't felt this brand of freedom in ages, and Catra isn't about to let a few stray hairs in her face dampen her painfully earned privilege. Her steed gallops into an area of the forest noticeably thicker than before. Catra gently tugs on horse's reins and slows its galloping gait to a trot. Throttling into the unknown, while tempting, isn't what she wants to do right now. 

Catra scans the area, her probing eyes leaving no bush or stone unturned. Though she does not see anything suspicious, the stiffening hairs at the back of her neck cast a shadow of a doubt. She could ignore her, unfortunately, accurate intuition and keep riding. This feeling could be an anomaly, a byproduct of her nerves under pressure. She is, after all, a lone soldier in the heart of the enemy. 

Years of serving under Lady Weaver have given Catra an uncanny knack for sensing when she isn't alone. She brings the horse to a complete stop. Catra sharply cocks her head with widening eyes as a hurried, scuffling sound cracks her brief window of respite. 

She's not alone. 

_I don't have time for shit like this, but I can't even defend myself because 'Oh, Catra, you must do this quietly, Catra, gibberish, something failure, more gibberish.' Hag._

A visibly annoyed Catra traces the sound's origin to a tree girthier than the rest. Though dismounting her steed would put her at a disadvantage if the lurking whoever decided to attack, she surmises that scoping around on foot would let her commit to a more thorough search. Her boots crunch beneath her as she lands on pebbles and patchy grass. 

She isn't here to fight. That would put her mission in jeopardy. But Catra needs to be sure that run-ins like this were rare isolated incidents. If there are people who inhabit these woods, it could compromise the reconnaissance her kingdom depends on. Catra needs to make sure whoever's here is not a threat; if they are, well, she can figure that out later.

Catra slowly reaches for the hilt on her side. She doesn't draw her blade— not yet, anyway. As she makes her way around the tree trunk, she notices several wooden posts surrounded by arrows. She chuckles under her breath.

_It looks like whoever was practicing here could use a few lessons. Or a new set of eyes._

Catra's about to leave when a petite, brown object snags her attention. She picks it up. A leather...hat? It's a bit of an odd shape for a hat, being more triangular than she's used to seeing. Whoever it belongs to clearly has impeccable taste. 

_Not._

Her shoulders relax as she exhales. "Guess there's no one here, Horsey," she whispers, "Should we get you some carrots? I bet you'd like some carrots, huh?" 

Catra's relieved no one is around to witness her talking to a horse. They'd think she was on some kind of hallucinogenic potion, like the infamous Crystal Flower or Pukka's Bane. She grabs one rein and, in one sweeping athletic leap, sticks a perfect landing on the saddle. 

_Tch. Lost time here for nothing. I should probably get—_

_CRACK_

"WHOA—"

_THUD_

She's on the floor. The impact knocked the wind from Catra's sternum with so much force she could have sworn she saw a mirage of her tattered soul leaving her body. Catra tries to stand, but a bulky weight on her torso has her pinned. Her vision fogs—the impact must have been harder than she previously thought. Catra rubs the back of her head; her vision clears up enough to make out a blonde head with soft, long hair on her chest—a woman. A waft of tea tree and lavender tickles her nose. The blonde woman begins to stir.

"Gods, what happened," groans the woman, "Am I dead? Wha—" 

Their eyes meet.

—

_Why did I think climbing a tree was a good idea? I don't climb trees! I—I hit things!_

Adora notices two things: first, she expected her plunge to be a bit—no, a _lot_ —more painful and possibly even result in a broken limb. Second, her expectations did not account for the privilege of locking eyes with indisputably the most handsome stranger she has ever laid eyes on. 

As royalty, it is Adora's sworn duty to introduce herself to a diverse range of people. She has come face to face with monarchs, dukes, nobles. Blacksmiths, stable boys, knights. She has walked through dusty streets, town squares, and listened to the ever-growing concerns of the common folk. She has journeyed to other kingdoms and discussed political arrangements and trade with other princesses, some whom she even had an attraction to. Adora has met well over thousands of people.

And yet, she has never come eye to eye with a sight so enthralling, a face with features so sharp, they deftly rip through the stitches and threads holding her world together, tearing right through every perception of beauty she'd ever known. It's a language she could spend decades trying to master and still only know the words 'hello' and 'goodbye.' 

Never has she seen jewels so piercing and incongruously alluring like the orbs she's lost in now. They're like fire and ice— one, a sapphire gem, serene, reassuring, an enigmatic lagoon; the other, an untamed wildfire, alive, gold with orange and red veins, a passion of unknown depth burning within. Adora is paralyzed; her glacial trepidation and fervid intrigue are at war, a paradox of an unstoppable force barreling into an unyielding object. But she can't peel away. Adora zones in on the stranger's irises with ardent intensity; she could paint a mural across one of the castle walls and not miss a single detail. Her forearms tremble beneath the mass of her all-consuming wonder. 

A vibrating rumble snaps her out of her reverie. The figure below her is getting restless. The stranger, a young woman, she realizes, tries to stand once more, but forgets that Adora is still unintentionally pinning her down. Adora gasps—she unconsciously licked her parted lips. She pushes herself up with her arms to better admire the charmingly rugged muse before her. 

Her innermost intuitions tell her to flee— this strange woman could be an enemy, could be someone sent to assassinate her, or even steal her innocence. The royal guards have always taught her to exercise caution when venturing outside the castle walls. Her best friend, Captain Glimmer, has told her stories of unearned trust resulting in horrific consequences.

And yet, here she is, body strewn atop this stranger as if it were a natural instinct. She needs to remember to breathe. No, she needs to get out of here. But is this stranger truly a threat? Her legs wobble, and her mouth grows dry. Her chest thumps with vigor and tempo, an allegro symphony lodged in her throat. Every single one of her nerve endings is an iceberg on fire. Frosty goosebumps chill her arms; rosy flames scorch her cheeks. 

None of it makes any sense. 

Perhaps it doesn't have to.


	2. The Ocean was a Monster 'Till I Met You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora is gay. Catra is gay. Shenanigans happen and promises are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present the second chapter of "These Disaster Gays But It's Medieval-ish!" Hope you enjoy-- this chapter is pretty silly. Thanks again to nuttyshake for helping me out with it!

II. The Ocean Was a Monster 'Till I Met You 

_Catra was six years old when she learned how to swim._

_Correction: Catra was six years old when Lady Weaver tossed her off a dock near the harbor into cold salt water. The woman had said nothing more than a few words. Catra thought those words would be the last she ever heard._

_"Sink or swim, little one. You must learn by doing," Lady Weaver said._

_Catra had not the slightest idea of how to swim. She was only six years old and the Kingdom of Shadows was the only home she’d ever known. Lady Weaver claimed she was found abandoned in a basket, discarded like some worn handkerchief that had outgrown its use, and left to satiate the rising tide's everlasting appetite. She believed it._

_Her arms and legs thrashed about. But after even just a few failed strokes, her limbs began to feel like they were weighed down by barrels. She couldn't stay afloat. After a few minutes of futile struggling and expelling all her energy,her body gave in to the hungry beast consuming her. She was afraid. She didn't want to die._

_But she didn't know how to swim._

_Catra opened her eyes to an old woman with white, chaotic hair, thick spectacles, and tan skin— with enough wrinkles to put old crumpled maps to shame— hovering over her. The woman carried a wooden staff and a basket full of tiny red spheres with a sweet aroma._

_Before she could even process her surroundings, Catra began choking on residual water in her lungs. She coughed for a minute before finally settling into the cool sand beneath. She was somewhere onshore, though the dock she'd been thrown from was nowhere in sight. How did she get here? Was she dead? Who was this strange woman, and how could she get home?_

_"Oh, dearie, you're awake! Good, good," the white-haired woman said._

_Catra had never been in a situation like this before. The last thing she remembered was—_

Lady Weaver made me swim, but I can't swim.

_Everything came flooding back. Catra's caretaker had left her at the mercy of the ocean. But Lady Weaver always said her methods were for her own good. Lady Weaver believed she could be strong one day. She wanted to impress Lady Weaver._

_Any tears she might have been holding onto became nothing but specters in the wind._

_Lady Weaver wanted her to be strong. Lady Weaver believed in her._

_"I'm hungry," she said weakly, "Do you have any food?"_

_The white-haired woman reached into her basket and pulled out a handful of the tiny red spheres._

_"Here, dearie. It's not much, but these berries are so delicious, you'll be feeling better in no time! Now, follow Madame Razz into the woods, dearie. We can get you more berries!"_

_Catra didn't hesitate for a second. She shoved as many of the berries in her mouth as she could. As Catra bit down, her tongue bathed in sweet, heavenly nectar._

_"Can I have some more?" she pleaded._

_Razz's expression softened as a soft smile grew on her face. "Yes, dearie. Now, where is your home?"_

_It remains a mystery why she went back._

—

Catra's fallen.

She was cast off a cliff and now lies in a tattered, smoldering pile of all her once pent up ashes of regret and sorrow. Well, perhaps not actually cast off a cliff, and maybe not into an actual pile of her, well, life. One thing Catra knows for sure, though, is that the small of her back, at this moment, is none too pleased with her. 

Catra gasps for air, as if she were a newborn calf taking its first greedy breaths, hungry for acknowledgment that she was alive. The immense pressure on her chest has another (albeit cruel) idea. Something, rather, _someone_ , is on top of her. Catra’s vision clears enough to see a pair of blue eyes undressing her, stripping her bare. She can't put a name to the other girl's alarmingly hypnotic trance. If Catra were someone else (anyone else, as Lady Weaver would say), she would think the woman is in awe and...admiring her? But she is _not_ someone else. She's _Catra_. 

_No one_ would ever willingly venture through a thick forest of thorns to look at Catra with _that_ sort of adoration.

And yet, here rests Catra—hopelessly consumed by something so disturbingly foreign, convinced that if she studied those bold irises enough, everything would somehow fall into place. The gleam she can feel in her own eyes makes it apparent: Catra is drawn to this woman as certainly as a river flows into the sea. 

This stranger's gaze has her planted in place. The skeptic within her wants to, needs to, protest, scrutinize every delicate fiber tying her to this moment to make sure it is real and not just a figment of her imagination. And yet her heart wants nothing more than to bask in the conflict of it all. Her body desires to purge itself of this invader, but her hands wish for nothing more than to care for and tuck those orphaned golden locks sheltering those otherworldly, icy eyes. She navigates turbulent waters in a blackness darker than the most charred chunks of her essence with no compass, no map, and no destination.

She could care less.

Catra's accustomed to being at the mercy of the infinite blue abyss. She's used to struggling against stacked odds. Even on her journey here, she barely escaped the jaws of a storm determined to do what Lady Weaver could not. 

And with just one look, this unfamiliar shroud, with undoubtedly the most tranquil, pale ocean eyes, has managed her unconditional surrender. 

Catra squints— there's something turbulent beneath the deceptively calm surface before her. She can see it clearly now: a typhoon, a formidable force to be reckoned with, a charged storm with an epicenter that dwarfs life itself, every single droplet of water unquestionably drawn to its core. 

It's the first time Catra doesn't fear the ocean. She lets the storm engulf her without the slightest bit of resistance. 

For once, Catra wants to dive in headfirst. 

_What’s happening to me?_

The mysterious woman hoists her body off the ground, providing a window for Catra to finally stand. Catra dusts herself off and runs her calloused fingers through her unkempt mane. Then, she feels a warm liquid pooling at the side of her left arm— she cut herself. Catra imagines it happened during the fall. It doesn't hurt much, but the moment she tears her gaze away from the blonde to examine her wound, a hand gently grips her forearm.

The stranger's hands are calloused not unlike her own and yet, somehow, more tender and soothing than finely threaded silk linens.

"Oh—oh no, I'm so sorry, I didn't—" the blonde stammers, sweat forming on her brow. 

_Wow. This woman is stunning. Her clothing suits her— wait what am I doing, get it together, Catra!_

Before Catra realizes what is happening, the woman tears off a piece of her own tunic, fashions a makeshift tourniquet, and wraps it around the wound. Both of their hands unknowingly reach for the same spot and brush against each other. They lock eyes once again.

Catra's breath hitches in her throat. "T-thank you for—"

But her gratuitous gesture ends prematurely. Without warning, the blonde stranger hastily grabs her odd-shaped hat and other belongings, and darts off into the forest without a second glance.

"—helping me," Catra says to the ghost of the stranger that once was. 

This is for the best, she thinks. Never has she felt her guard plummet to such a low degree, she even forgets she was fully clothed during the whole encounter. The mere presence of the woman's world-defying eyes made her question what it meant to truly breathe, truly _feel_ the depth of her surroundings. It was the only time she’s ever experienced such a sensation; Catra felt as though she discovered a missing shard of her tragically fragmented soul.

It is an inexplicable polarity, really: Catra isn't one to forge even the least invested of bonds without some unreasonable degree of reluctance. She doesn't have many friends, save for Captain Scorpia (enjoyable, but far too chipper), Entrapta (this one only cares about making trinkets and tiny food), and one of her squires, Kyle (a dull sword has more use, honestly). She could hardly consider Lady Weaver one of her attachments—the woman took her in and gave her shelter, yes. But she also brought her a torrent of unrelenting horror via her brutal methods. It was a relationship tangled in the knots of its own complexity. Regardless, her attachments are few and far between.

Yet here she is, brushing her arm, longing for the lingering apparition of someone who is no longer there, a tender touch she suddenly feels deprived of. The majestic stranger's eyes had a unique gravitational attraction, one that actually granted her a choice on whether or not she wanted to yield. Never has she encountered a current which asked permission to sweep her away.

Catra glances toward the wooden posts surrounded by stray arrows, and chuckles. The woman she saw carried a bow and quiver— these must be her practicing grounds, she thinks. Perhaps she'd be back. And when she returns, Catra might teach her a thing or two about aiming for the heart.

But she would have to table this matter for later. She has Lord Hordak to impress and a vile witch to humiliate.

—

Adora doesn't know how long she's been running. All she knows is that the sooner she gets back to the castle, the sooner she can change out of this grimed clothing and make sense of whatever the hell just happened. 

What happened, anyway?

One minute, Adora was scrambling up a tree and finding a sturdy branch with an abundance of foliage to give her cover. The next, Adora was knocking the most beautiful foreigner she had ever seen off a horse, ogling the woman as if she were an undiscovered relic of ancient times crafted and delivered by the gods themselves. Adora prays her intrigue didn't give off the impression of a creature so lonely that it kept the company of perversion. No, she definitely crossed that threshold.

_Of course— of course I looked desperate!_

But the stranger did stare back. Though Adora couldn't see her own reaction, she felt as if she found an untethered piece of herself in the beautiful woman's eyes. She was devoured by a world filled with ghostly manifestations of her own warring emotions. 

Adora regrets not asking her name. But Adora recognizes doing so would put everything she's ever worked for at risk. What if the gorgeous brunette found out her secret? What if the sharp-jawed, freckled woman retaliated for the unflattering mark on her blooming, caramel skin? No, Adora did what she could at the time. She made amends. Adora tried to fix her mistake, and her ripped tunic is proof. And then she sprinted off, albeit in the wrong direction. (She is on the long route to the castle. How troublesome.)

After a needlessly long journey, Adora nears the drawbridge; it's the last obstacle standing between her desire for sleep and her cozy wool bedding. She briskly walks toward a tree with a hollowed-out base and reaches for a small burlap sack tucked inside. Adora pulls out a long, slate-colored dress with a wide collar and long sleeves. The dress has a brown sewed belt at the waist and gold trimming along the neckline. It accentuates her defined collarbones and muscular, broad shoulders. Adora strips out of her disguise and stuffs it into the concealed sack. 

As she slips into the gown, her gaze unknowingly lingers on where the stranger's hand came into contact with her own. Adora shakes her head and continues getting dressed. She frees her hair from its roped prison and lets it flow down just below her shoulders. Adora polishes her ensemble with a golden pendant around her neck and brown ankle-high canvas shoes. She hates wearing dresses, but she can't risk people seeing her _adventurous_ attire. It would leave too many crumbs for people to follow and eventually put the pieces together. 

Adora stashes her bow and sword into the hollowed tree and approaches the castle drawbridge. She can finally make sense of her earlier encounter from the comfort of her bath. And she needs a bath. 

—

"I can't believe they sent me to do this shit," Catra pouts, "I make one mistake, and suddenly I'm the world's worst leader. I've done so much for them! But I'll never be good enough in their eyes. You think I'm worthy, right?" 

The horse continues crunching on the apples Catra picked from a random orchard. She doesn't know if they belonged to someone, nor does she care. She just wants to make sure her noble steed is well fed so she may resume her monotonous scouting mission because the ignorant hag decided this is what she deserved as if the torture in the Garnet hadn't been enough.

It's been four days since her encounter with the blonde, blue-eyed woman. Four days of allowing her to build a comfortable nest in Catra's head. Four days of wishing she asked for a name or something _, anything._ She's never ruminated on any one person like this before, let alone someone she met for less than five minutes. But the woman's intimidatingly beautiful gaze brought out a strange concoction of emotions Catra didn't even know she had. Vulnerability? Longing? Awe? It couldn't have been love at first sight— Catra doesn't believe in such nonsense. 

Infatuation, maybe. 

It isn't often that someone piques Catra's interest. This is why, in the back of her mind, she's so determined to meet the young woman again. Maybe they could talk and get acquainted. The woman could show her around the kingdom; she likely knew more than she let on. The woman could be of use to her. Yes, that's it. _This_ stranger is a golden opportunity, a rare treasure, and that's obviously why Catra is so focused on meeting her again. 

Right?

Four days of scouting the area led her to the same conclusion again and again: there is a reason the castle is called 'The Great Fortress.' This entire mission is a farce. And how is she supposed to kidnap a princess who _never leaves the impenetrable castle?_ Better yet, how is Catra supposed to do this _quietly_? She knew Lady Weaver could be petty, but this is another level of ludicrous.

She stares out at her horse through a small window in the stone safehouse DT was so kind to lend her. It's nothing fancy, but it is inconspicuous; nothing about it screams, 'I'm the enemy!' The tiny cottage is built with over a hundred different shades of gray stone. The door is made from some light chocolate-colored wood and has two black metal pieces of reinforcement iron spread perpendicular to the upper and bottom halves. Catra wouldn't mind living here— it's quiet, isolated, and, best of all, it has a double-stalled stable. Catra could have two horses!

It's around midday, and Catra can't decide whether she wants to actually do what she came for or try a new approach. She supposes she could revisit that fateful spot in the woods. Catra isn't even confident she could find her way back. 

And it's precisely why she drapes her cloak over her shoulders, grabs her swords, and darts for the door. 

Catra tugs the door open only to find a surprised DT returning from what she assumes is intel gathering. The lanky figure breezes by Catra and stands in the opposite corner of the room. 

DT licks their upper lip. "Were you on your way somewhere, darling?" 

Catra leans against the doorway and puts a hand on her cocked hip, "Yes, actually. There's a spot in the woods I want to find again," she says, "I’ve had no luck on the mission doing things the old fashioned way, so I want to try something new." 

At this, DT's inner chaos demon makes an appearance. "Something new, you say? You could try something at the upcoming masquerade ball," they say, "But you would need an invitation or be someone's honored guest."

Catra deadpans. What is the point, telling her about some fancy ball when she doesn't even have a way in? 

"And before you even ask, I happen to have an invitation."

Oh.

This is something. This is _progress._

"So, you're offering to take little old me as your honored guest?" Catra's eyes slowly furrow, "And what is it you want in return? Everything has a price."

DT's sinister grin is back, "Perceptive. And I don't want much, really," they say, "Nothing except, say, meeting Princess Adora."

She has DT pinned against the wall with an elbow at their throat and a fist full of fabric quaking in her other hand. No one is supposed to know about Princess Adora. Did Lady Weaver betray her? If DT knows, how many others know? And if so many people know, how is she supposed to do this quietly? Lady Weaver set her up to fail. It's the only explanation. 

"How do you know about Princess Adora?!" spits Catra, "You have ten seconds to talk, and if not, I'll make sure the sharks have a gluttonous buffet come nightfall. Fear only makes them...hungrier." 

"Relax, darling, relax, please," struggles DT, "There is no hiding anything from me. I have eyes and ears everywhere. Why do you think I'm so efficient with this whole espionage affair?" Catra puts more pressure on DT's throat. 

"Okay, okay, just release me, please," says DT, their eyes now slightly bloodshot. "I have eyes and ears everywhere, it's true. But,” the dark-clothed figure twirls in place, “I also transform!"

For a moment, Catra thought DT was actually going to shapeshift like in some of the fables Lady Weaver (rarely) let her read. She snorts. "Uh-huh. Transform. Okay, so what, you're a performer from one of those theatres the nobles enjoy so much? I still fail to see the connection between that and meeting Ado— Princess Adora." _Why'd I correct myself?_

"Because, darling, I need to get into Adora's skin," they say. Catra grimaces and almost looks nauseous. "Not literally into her skin, you twit. I need to really listen to her speak, have a genuine conversation. It helps me expand my...roles." 

DT is strange. But it makes sense—from an espionage perspective. What better way to gain intel from the enemy than to dress in sheep's clothing and _become_ the enemy? Catra deduces that this "transforming" DT takes so much pride over is the backbone of their success. She admits that it is cunning.

"DT, I swear if you ever try to deceive me—"

"Please, darling, why would I ever? Deceiving you, Commander, would bring me no joy. Well, under most circumstances." 

Catra scoffs and shuffles toward the cottage entrance. She's had enough of DT's charades for the day. But the masquerade ball isn't a terrible idea—everyone will be in costume, meaning she could gather all the intel she desires _and_ remain anonymous. It would also be the ripe chance to scope out the castle _from the inside_. When she kneels before the King in three days, it'll be under the guise of a peace offering in the form of grain and silk. That also means the guards will be watching Catra's every move, and she can't risk failing when she has yet to find anything of value to return. 

Reluctantly, she turns around to face DT. "When is the ball?" she asks.

DT smiles. "Tomorrow night. Don't worry about your attire. I will handle that. You just ready your gorgeous little face, darling."

“Fine,” Catra says, “but you should know one thing: I don’t do dresses.” 

“Duly noted.” 

Catra nods and wordlessly leaves the stone structure. This plan is going to work. It has to. Catra doesn't want to know what would happen if it doesn't. Catra's stomach pits, and her hand twitches against her will. She can't go back empty-handed. If the young commander fails again, she may as well fasten rocks to her ankles, jump into the sea, and do the deed herself. 

Catra pauses to take a deep breath. Everything will be fine. Catra will visit the spot in the woods, if she can find it, and maybe use those wooden posts to brush up on her swordsmanship. It has been a while since she last trained, anyway. 

_Everything will be fine._

—

"Adora? Adora!" 

A high-pitched shriek breaks Adora from her stupor. She's perched on one of the many window sills in the main hall of the castle. The towering, pearl-tinted pillars support a ceiling so monstrous, one of the servants used to tell the princess tales about how the gods created the fortress as a safe haven for their mortal forms. With how cavernous the hall was, she never doubted it. 

Adora shifts her torso to face the short, purple-haired woman commanding her attention. The woman wears white trousers and a lavender tunic beneath her silver chest plate. Captain Glimmer jogs over to the window and places her hand on Adora's shoulder. The two had formed a close friendship over the years, a result of their constant proximity to one another. 

Glimmer, one of Bright Moon's defense strategists, takes residence in one of the lower castle chambers. Most of the time, she's out on patrol with her best friend (lover), Ser Bow, an expert marksman. He is a significant part of why Adora is so hellbent on perfecting her aim; her competitive drive is unparalleled. She still, however, has a long way to go. 

"Hi, Glimmer," Adora says, "Having a pleasant day?" 

Glimmer shines a smile so radiant, her excitement could blind Bright Moon's neighboring kingdoms. "It's not too exciting. Just the usual patrolling and all. But…" she trails off as she places both hands on Adora's shoulders, "...the Masquerade Ball is tomorrow night! And this year, yours truly won't be saddled with guard duty." 

Adora shifts uncomfortably beneath Glimmer's hands, a small lump forming in her throat. In truth, Adora had forgotten all about the ball. Not only is she missing a new gown and mask— she has no one to escort her, and she isn't quite up to dealing with people recognizing and jostling her about her solo appearance. Granted, Adora could invite anyone she so desired. If Bright Moon and its neighboring kingdoms could unanimously agree on one thing, it is that Adora's beauty was a divine blessing from the gods themselves. 

"I-I actually forgot about that, to be honest with you," Adora says, "I'll have to wear a dress and mask that I've already worn before. And I won't have anyone to escort me—" 

"Adora, have you ever looked in a mirror? You can have anyone in the kingdom wrapped around your arm with a little _gander_ ," Glimmer reassures her, "besides, you don't really need anyone to escort you. And you never know—you could cross paths with someone at the ball." 

Adora purses her lips together as her face scrunches in deep thought. Glimmer is right; she doesn't need a date. But she does need a dress. And a mask. 

_What I need is to hit something before I lose my mind._

"Well, I still need a dress and mask. I suppose I can ask one of—" 

Glimmer interrupts her with a devious grin and coyly says, "Actually Adora, I may or may not have asked one of the seamstresses if they'd talked to you already."

Adora raises an eyebrow. "And?"

Glimmer takes a small step back, "And I may have told them that the ball slipped your mind. Your dress and mask are ready— they just need to deliver it to your chambers." 

Adora breathes a fleeting sigh of relief before she tenses up again. She hates dresses. Mostly, though, she's anxious at the thought of drowning in a sea of unfamiliar people. Adora doesn't mind the spotlight when it is on her terms. But masquerade balls have always been a wildcard for her. When she was fourteen, she'd heard a nerve-wracking tale; a well-known duke had been assassinated while relieving himself. The assailant was never caught. They found the duke's body in a garderobe (Adora would sooner leap from a tower than die on a chamber pot). Since then, her paranoia has dwarfed any attempts of jollity and self-indulgence. 

Though, Adora does take solace in one of the event's attributes. Given that every person in the ballroom would be wearing a mask (including the servants), she, in essence, would be invisible. And while she took advantage of her concealed identity, she would allow herself one of her most sincere pleasures. 

To Adora, no sensation could ever compare to the intrigue of gazing straight into another being's eyes. She's no prodigy in the complexities of human emotion. But she has developed a strange ability to swim through the depths of a person's core. Even with a short window of eye contact, Adora can see where someone's heart truly lies, regardless of their fickle projections on the surface. So, while she doesn't always know the right words to say, or when to console or give space, Adora does know when someone's heart is virtuous and pure.

Why she's drawn in, however, is a mystery she has yet to solve. 

She abandons her perch on the window sill and strides toward the castle entrance, "Thank you, Glimmer. Would you mind asking them to go ahead and leave it on my bed? I'm going to take a walk in the courtyards." 

Glimmer nods, "Of course, Princess Adora," she teases, "I'll see to it that your gown is pressed and ready for tomorrow night." 

Adora rolls her eyes, "I commend you on a job well done, Captain Glimmer," she teases back, "but I do appreciate the favor. Thank you." 

The two women part ways, and Adora leaves the castle. 

She doesn't even look at the courtyards. 

—

Pointless.

Swinging at an immobile enemy incapable of fighting back, incapable of dodging and counter-attacking— it's pointless. Slashing at wooden posts may help aspiring swordsmen perfect their technique, but Catra is far from new to the art. If magic were real, these pathetic, useless, glorified tree stumps would combust beneath the scorching frustration in her eyes. She could roast a pig, or maybe a salmon or catfish. At least then those stumps would be suitable for _something._

Catra forcefully tosses her blade aside and takes a seat beneath the large tree where she met the mysterious woman plaguing her thoughts. Why can't she get those lucid eyes and that divinely sculpted jawline and those locks of golden sunlight and— 

Oh.

Catra can't afford any distractions. Catra needs to focus on her objectives: find weaknesses in the leviathan fortress, kidnap Princess Adora quietly, live, and toss Lady Weaver off the highest mountain on Etheria. In that precise order. 

Kidnap the princess, Adora, quietly. Quietly. Kidnap the adored (hah), revered, and fair Princess Adora of Bright Moon without making a sound. Well, perhaps not that literally, but the task seems like such a fool's errand. Catra would need either an exceptionally potent sleeping concoction or _something_ to make that happen. Adora must be a screamer. 

Catra has not the slightest idea what Princess Adora looks like. Well, she has a vague idea— a young woman, blonde hair, blue eyes, somewhat tall, shy, and 'painfully earnest' is what she thinks Lady Weaver said. It's glaringly apparent Lady Weaver wanted her to fail; the hag described nearly a quarter of Etheria's population. Catra would more than likely meet the princess once she speaks to King Grayskull about Lord Hordak's peace offering. 

Silk and grain—what an elegant and palatable insult. Catra better not lose her head for this; she won't permit herself an eternity of peace until she sees the look on Lady Weaver's demonic face when she succeeds.

It should be simple enough. Then again, with Catra's stroke of luck, could anything go that smoothly? Catra improvises a pillow with her bundled cloak and lets herself fall back. The scent of pine and herbs graces her curious nose as she stares into the dense canopy above. She can feel the damp forest floor gently soaking through to cool her skin as the mid-afternoon sun warms her front. 

Catra is unusually relaxed; she counts her shallow breaths before drifting off into a peaceful slumber.

—

Catra wakes to a dull ache between her shoulder blades. She tries to stretch her arms but finds herself unable to move them— they've been bound behind her. Catra looks to her right; Horsey is right where she left him, though the pack on the saddle no longer seems full. As Catra’s awareness sharpens, she notices a blonde figure pacing back and forth, arguing with herself.

"What have I done? Oh, sweet Etheria, was this really necessary, what if she's someone important?!" 

Catra can feel the girl's quaking nerves shake the ground beneath her. It then dawns on Catra that she's actually in quite the binding predicament— a literal, binding predicament. How on Etheria did she sleep through someone propping her up and tying her to a fucking tree?! She tugs at the restraints holding her in place; they're secure. Catra wouldn't be going anywhere unless her captor willed it. 

_Oh, great. This is fucking neat. Which god did I piss off now? Ugh, this is what I get for thinking a nap in the middle of the fucking forest was a good idea._

Adora turns toward her now lucid captive. "How did you find this place? Who are you?!" _Why am I so drawn to you?_

Adora picks up a sword and raises it at Catra's throat. The brunette realizes her waist feels unusually barren. Catra frantically scans her belt. Sure enough, she's been stripped of her weapons. Catra's defenseless. She huffs in resignation. At least this girl’s pretty. May as well seize the moment. 

"Well, hello to you too," Catra smirks, "You know I’m not that strong, right?" she cocks her head and smugly tugs at her binds, “I mean, listen, I’m flattered, and you are quite pretty. If we met under different circumstances, I may have asked you on a midnight stroll.” 

Adora stumbles, her hand briefly loosening its grip around the sword as she takes notice of her captive's eyes. Adora could recognize those eyes anywhere as if they'd been branded onto her skin. This is the woman she encountered days prior, whose bewitching, mismatched eyes skewed Adora's typically balanced equilibrium toward blundering catastrophe. Adora fights an uphill battle against a torrent of her own blood rushing to her face. She loses.

_Don't be an idiot, Adora. Just breathe. Ugh, what would Glimmer do?_

Adora can't falter. She hardens her stance. "Answer my questions or I'll—"

"You'll do what, stab me? I know that wouldn’t bode well on your conscience,” Catra’s grin grows even wider, “Maybe cut me loose and kiss me? I mean, look, the way you’re looking at me now—you could at least ask for my name first. What kind of woman do you take me for?" 

Catra's enjoying this exchange a bit too much. Her wrists, however, protest passionately. “I merely jest,” and then her eyes grow mockingly curious, “Unless...?”

"Quiet!" Adora shouts, her voice far from angry. She inches the sword dangerously close to the bound woman's jugular, "I mean it, answer me. How did you find this place?" Adora's eyes soften.

Catra wants to keep teasing the woman, but a familiar shift in the blonde's gaze halts any quips on the tip of her tongue. Catra's met this girl before. This is the jaw-dropping woman inhabiting the deep confines of her conscience, carving its walls into an impossible labyrinth. Catra drops the smug facade, her eyebrows now lax, lips curling into an affectionate smile. It feels oddly second-nature.

And then Catra surprises herself: she tells the truth. "I'm here on business, I suppose. I rode into the forest and heard a noise—which I now know had been you trying to hide from me. I mean, seriously, a tree? Then you fell on top of me, which, thank you for that, by the—"

"—I know the rest!" Adora cuts her off. Adora taps her free hand against her own thigh, "So, you really rode all the way back here just to, to what, nap? Nothing else? Why the weapons?"

Catra sighs, and her smile fades. Maybe she should have stayed at the cottage; honesty is so _exhausting_. "I've grown fond of this place. I have a lot on my mind, and fresh air helps me relax. I carry weapons because people can be such vile creatures. If you're going to kill me, or whatever, hurry on and get it over with," Catra says with a foreign somberness of unknown origin, "I won't be missed." Her shoulders slump to the limits the ropes allow. 

Why did Catra blurt that out, again?

Adora takes two hesitant steps toward her prisoner and then stops. Why should she believe this sun-kissed stranger? Perhaps the years she spent deprived of tender affection compels her to do so. Or, maybe whatever enigma Adora found in the woman's eyes that fateful day was intentional and by design. Though Adora has not figured out much about the odd embers that her captive stokes in her abdomen, she is convinced that the annoyingly quick-witted girl would never deliberately harm her. 

"I'm not going to hurt you," Adora says, "But I do have one question." Adora drops the meek performance, an arrogant, self-assured woman emerging instead, "How good is your aim?" Adora points at the wooden posts. 

That's a lot of missed arrows.

Catra raises an eyebrow, and then, "Probably better than yours," she says, "Are you asking for my guidance? I'm more fond of swordplay, but I wager I could have you hitting your mark within a fortnight." 

Adora squats down and holds the blade across one knee, her finger smoothly gliding across well-forged, polished steel. "Can you now? How do I know you're not just taking me for a fool so that I set you free?"

Catra leans forward, the ropes behind her as taut as they can go. The two women's faces are mere inches apart. Catra can feel the other girl's hot breath ghosting her lips, their auras entangled, waltzing.

Catra draws her eyebrows together, "You don't. But that's the thrill of it, is it not? Besides, I'd never risk scarring your adorably large brow." Catra's sore wrists force her to slack against the tree. "Ugh, seriously, why do you have all of this rope? What, did you randomly decide you wanted to scale a giant tower?"

Adora scoffs and squints. "Actually, I took this from the pack on your horse," Adora says, "You can't fault me for being cautious."

Catra pauses.

 _What in Hordak’s name does DT do in their spare time?_

"Well, you got me there. I would have done the same thing," Catra says, "Say, what else do you think is in that pack? Maybe an ointment? My wrists are burning," Catra feigns agony (but not really), "Or, perhaps some roasted lamb shanks? I'm starving. Captivity is a demanding task, you know."

Adora rolls her eyes. "Enough whining. I'll make you a deal," Adora rocks on her heels and juts out her chin, "You help me. I help you," she cocks her head, "You're not from here. You train with me, and I'll escort you around the kingdom, show you around— you know. Once you prove that I can trust you."

Catra studies the woman before her. She's avoiding the other girl's gaze, her ears picking each word apart with surgical precision. Can _Catra_ trust this girl? She wants to say something witty, something to deflect the other girl's unexpected assault of generosity.

Her tongue betrays her.

"What do, uh,” Catra clears her throat, “What do promises mean to you?" she asks, much to her shock. _What?_

Adora pauses, and then, somehow, leans closer, "I don't make promises I can't keep."

Catra puffs at the stray hairs on her face and laughs. "Then, how about this. I promise. I promise I won't hurt you or make you regret trusting me." Catra raises her head as high as it can go, her confidence unwavering. 

Catra's never broken a promise. She has no such plans to start anytime soon.

Adora pauses, then lifts the blade. She cuts the ropes and sets her prisoner free, only to bind her in another unusual arrangement. "This doesn't mean I trust you—not yet. But, I'm willing to try," Adora extends her hand toward her new unlikely ally, "Please, don't make me regret it." 

Catra tenderly rubs at her red, bruised wrists. She feels nothing. Catra glances at the barren posts, then at the arrows. Anywhere but the olive branch before her. She dusts imaginary dirt off her shoulders. A shrill, deafening screech reverbs off the increasingly complex maze in her mind. The drumming in her chest is relentless, thumping, revolting against the brittle cage that keeps it at bay.

_"Hello? Are you alright?"_

Catra's hand flies to her chest, her eyes nearly bulging from their sockets. She wipes her sweaty palms on her tunic.

"Are you—" 

She’s back. "I'm sorry, I, uh," Catra says, "I was just surprised that I had hands for a second," she lies through a phony smile. Catra takes the other woman's hand, and the other woman pulls her up with ease. Catra can’t believe this girl is offering her a chance.

They stand face to face now, a moderate height difference between them. Adora's taller, much to her own surprise. Catra squeezes Adora's hand, solidifying the unlikely partnership.

"Wait," Catra says, "What's your promise?" 

"What?" Adora quirks an eyebrow. At this rate, it'll be stuck like that for the rest of her life.

"What's your promise? I made you a promise, so what do you promise me?" Catra asks.

"Didn’t I just release you?" Adora protests. She freed this person when she had no obligation to do so, and she dares make demands? Yet, for reasons unknown, she finds her voice making a choice of its own. "Alright. I promise to look after you for as long as you stay. As long as I'm with you, I mean." Adora rubs the back of her neck; she’s been sweating and didn't notice.

"Then, it's a promise," Catra says, firmly squeezing the other girl's hand once more.

Adora squeezes back. At some point during the exchange, their bodies grew closer. "It's a promise," says Adora. 

Adora doesn't make promises she can't keep. Catra's never broken a promise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone definitely added +10 to Adora's sneak stat (haha, it was me. I added it. Because I'm the author.)


	3. Eye See You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are gay. Sexy swordfighting. Lesbianism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not recovered from season 5.

“You’re overthinking it,” Catra says. “You have proper form. Whoever taught you knows what they’re doing. But,” and then Catra taps her own forehead, “the real problem is up here.” 

Adora doesn't know if she should feel flattered or insulted. She has perfect form, but the problem is all in her head? Bow taught her well and, for the most part, she can occasionally land her mark. But what this woman is saying, that it's all in her head— it couldn’t possibly be true. Could it? 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Adora says, “Can you, um— can you explain?”

Catra abandons her post against the large tree where she was previously held captive to stand next to Adora. Catra’s footsteps are slow, weary, a stark contrast to the erratic drumming in her chest that only seems to get faster with her approach. She’s mere inches away now.

Catra presses against Adora’s back as she adjusts minor positions in Adora’s posture. She can't help but notice the seamless nature of how their bodies fit. It reminds her of the time she received her first sword: the anticipation, the constant stream of thoughts of what she would do once she laid hands on it for the first time. Once an unbroken, unflinching block of cold steel, Catra melts into the pristine mold before her, hot, burning upon first touch and then promptly relieved, refreshed, as if this were always her true form and where she belonged, a destiny. 

Adora’s skin tingles at the slight brush of contact, a small shiver of a breath escaping her lips. A simmering touch wraps around both of her hands; Catra’s fixing her hand’s positions now.

Catra releases a half-hearted laugh as she steps away, “What’s there to explain? You’re overthinking it,” Catra says, “And now you’re overthinking what I said about overthinking.” Adora parts her lips to speak and promptly shuts them again. She’s fishing for a response but realizes she has none— the other woman is right. Just as Adora tries to speak again, Catra’s in the process of removing her tunic, revealing a tight, quarter-sleeved undershirt. Adora is pleasantly surprised by what she sees; this woman that seemed composed of only skin and bone is anything but. Instead, Adora’s eyes wander down toward Catra’s lean, muscular torso and sculpted clavicle, a work of art in its own right.

“Is there something wrong with my chest?” Catra asks, smug. “Or, perhaps you like what you see?” Catra cocks an eyebrow. There are times when Adora feels eternally indebted to whichever holy being ensured that her face never resembled that of a fresh corpse. Her warm cheeks have always been the subject of endless flattery. This is _not_ one of those times. The redness on Adora’s face is like a bed of freshly watered crimson roses after a year-long winter and oh, how she wishes she could simply run away and forget how much she’s embarrassing herself.

“I— what?” Adora stammers, “No— I, you’re fine. I mean! I’m fine. I mean. No, there’s nothing— ” Adora curses herself internally. “Listen, I’ve had quite a long day.” 

Adora continues fumbling over her words until she actually fumbles the recurve bow in her hand and it falls to the ground. Adora bends down to grab it, but instead of touching rough, textured wood, she’s grabbing something softer, warmer— 

The blonde recoils on reflex, but immediately regrets it when she sees a flash of disappointment across the stranger’s face. Catra won’t deny that she’d not expected the flustered woman’s aversion to her touch, nor would she deny that, in some other part of her mind, it stung. It does not, however, mean she did not enjoy it, despite how brief it may have been. Catra wraps her fingers around the bow and slowly rises from her heels. “You dropped this,” Catra says, more gently than she intended.

Adora doesn’t miss the way the stranger’s voice caresses her with a feather’s touch, nor does she miss the sudden irregularity behind the caged walls of her chest. 

“Thank you,” Adora murmurs, the only reply she could muster without conscious effort. 

As Catra hands Adora the recurve bow, she is struck with an epiphany so blatant, it’s a mystery how she’d even forgotten. “I just realized,” Catra says, “I don’t even know your name.” 

Whatever pleasant, fluttering sensations Adora was feeling deep in her center dissipate into a subdued panic. Her world drifts away from her in a tunneling blur and suddenly she’s a stranger in her own body, a fragmented ghost hovering over a past version of herself. She loses control of her fingers and nearly drops the recurve bow again; she quickly recovers. Adora counts the freckles on the stranger’s face— one, two, three…

_“Hello?”_

...four, five, six…

And then there’s a hand taking up every corner of her vision.

Catra waves back and forth. “Are you alright?” Catra didn’t notice that, at some point, her free hand was drawn to Adora’s shoulder, and tenderly brushed her thumb along the outermost edges of her collarbone. Catra doesn’t remove her hand; Adora doesn’t either.

Adora drops the recurve bow and twirls two loose strands of her hair around her index finger. “Yes, I’m—” Adora takes a breath, “I’m fine. My apologies, I—” _What am I going to say, I don’t know my name? Think!_ “As I said before, it’s been— it’s been quite a day.”

Adora’s disconnect between mind and body ceases as she registers a foreign yet familiar softness running along her shoulder. She glances down and discerns that the gentle crawling sensation is actually the other woman providing her reassurance. Adora’s eyes grow fond and her lips take the shape of a delicate smile. Her now gleaming eyes fixate on the stranger’s— something about the other girl’s sincere gaze wraps her in a glowing blanket of affection.

“So,” Catra perceptively says, “You don’t—you don’t have to tell me your name. Not if, uh, not if you don’t want to. But it would be quite the letdown if I had no way to find you again.” Catra breaks eye contact and removes her hand from the blonde woman’s shoulder, choosing to fiddle with the collar of her undershirt instead. 

Adora’s chest gets a reprieve, her lungs taking in the brunette woman’s spirit, steadying herself into a level cadence. The woman before her now is nothing like the witty heartbreaker she captured earlier—that woman had been fiery, animated, _wild_. This woman, though— this woman is the soothing droplet of a steam room, the remedial stroke of herbal ointment on a wound. This woman’s eyes hold something curative, reviving, as though if Adora stared long enough the world around her would simply pause and wait for her to catch her breath.

Adora’s confidence returns as she moves to pick up her sword. “I’ll make you another deal. Duel me,” Adora narrows her eyes and suddenly the bold, proud fighter is ready to dance once again.

Catra mirrors her and crosses her arms as she puffs out her chest. “You’re brave. I know I asked for your name. But you never asked for mine.” Catra draws one of her swords, and then, “If you win, I’ll give you my name. But if I win…” Catra trails off and whirls her sword around her hand with almost cat-like dexterity, “If I win, you tell me yours.”

Adora snickers. “I suppose I’m fortunate, then.” Catra’s confidence wavers, “And why is that?” She runs a single finger along the edge of her sword. “Why, because I’ll finally learn the name of the woman who cushioned my fall. I owe you my gratitude,” Adora says.

“Cocky, I see. I can respect that,” Catra says, blood rushing through her lower regions in surprise anticipation.

“Not cocky,” Adora replies, “Just confident.” Adora tosses her sword in the air as it spins, and catches it with her other hand without so much as batting an eyelash. 

It begins.

The first few moments bring time to a halt. Neither woman moves an inch. 

”You’re not afraid of getting close to me, are you?” Catra asks, coy, ”You didn’t seem scared a minute ago.”

Adora recognizes Catra’s bait. She bites anyway. Adora surges forward and brings her sword down with the eagerness of a guillotine. 

A clang cracks the atmosphere. Sparks fly.

“You’re a lot stronger than you look,” mouths Catra, straining as she holds her sword perpendicular to her face, steel grating steel. “I guess I should take this seriously,” she smirks.

They’re in a deadlock, and then, “Oh, yea?” Adora counters with another strike, this time a swipe from her lower right. “Perhaps I will, too.” 

Catra blocks. Her wrist tenses. The sheer force spawns lit shards of shattering tension, each one cutting through the air.

The two swordswomen retreat from their struggle, both holding their swords with one hand, and the other behind their back. They circle around each other like sharks closing in on wounded prey, interpreting each individual step and breath, searching for any potential cracks in discipline and technique. 

They’re evenly matched. Blow for blow, step for step, the duel draws on, neither woman showing any sign of surrender. Beads of sweat cloud their bodies, evidence that, despite their clever banter and verbal sparring, neither warrior plans on losing. 

Adora’s swings are blunt. Shockwaves emanate through each strike. Catra matches them stroke for stroke. It’s an unrehearsed dance of two worlds colliding; Catra’s fighting style is a lost art, a game of cat and mouse. Each motion is deliberate, calculated and inhumanly swift. Adora’s is the antithesis: slow, but stalwart; unrefined but disciplined, dripping with tenacity. 

A split second, and Adora falters. Her blood pounds in her ears. Catra leaves nothing to chance. She lunges in one fluid motion. A piercing clang reverberates in and through their bones. The kindling particles of metal on metal aren’t the only sparks flying through the fraught skirmish. Their gazes meet.

“You’re fairly easy on the eyes,” Catra says, “Are you sure you want to risk a scar?” Catra leans in closer, face nearly pressed against her blade. Adora mirrors her. “I wouldn’t mind such a marker of this moment,” Adora says, gaining the upper hand in a battle of strength as she slowly forces Catra back. “But I know it won’t come to that.” 

They break off. Catra maneuvers herself behind Adora; Adora parries behind her right shoulder. Adora can feel the other woman’s hot, panting breath creeping along the back of her ear. They’re inches apart. Adora cocks her head to meet the woman’s gaze.

“I could mark you in other ways,” Catra says, “If that’s what you want.” 

Adora flounders. She recovers as both women return to face each other. Their eyes meet. Adora’s skin is flushed, dripping with sudor, the uncertainty of whether this boiling point is a result of the duel or _something else_ written in her stance.

Catra sees an opening but Adora dodges. Catra rips the collar of Adora’s shirt, it now slightly hanging off her shoulder, exposing her chiseled collarbone even more. Catra can’t tear her darkening pupils away, fixated with a feral hunger. 

Adora takes advantage of the impromptu distraction. She aims to disarm Catra, but instead cuts her left sleeve, revealing a gleaming, well-toned arm. 

The tables turn. Adora’s gawking at the now vulnerable skin, meticulously tracing every contour and curve, licking her lips, a grinding dryness in her throat. She shifts her gaze to Catra’s shining lips and the way her jagged canines add a sharp finesse to every breath she takes, every word she speaks. 

“Well,” Catra says, “This was my favorite shirt.”

Adora cocks an eyebrow, “And this was mine.” She looks at Catra’s arm again. 

“Careful,” Catra says through wet lips, “If I’m not mistaken, you seem rather parched.”

Adora scoffs. “Enough games,” but there’s no venom in her voice. The two women are drawn back into the duel, their focus a harpoon barreling through flesh. They lunge at each other, swords raised. 

And then history repeats itself: Adora and Catra, locked in an unyielding display of an insurmountable tidal wave crashing against a steadfast wall of fire. As Adora went for what would have been the winning strike, Catra too exploited what she perceived as an opening. They’re titans in gridlock, both women gripping each other’s sword hands and preventing the other from moving. 

They lock eyes; the intensity of the exchange is smothering, each woman breathless, panting from not just fatigue, but the provocative manner of their frolicsome motions. 

Then, the improbable happens— Adora and Catra simultaneously drop their weapons and yield. The duel is a draw. But the real battle is far from over.

“I must say,” Catra says between heavy pants, “I underestimated you.”

Adora teases under her rapid breaths, “And I, you. Who knew someone of such a stature as yourself could be so quick?”

The pair stand in deafening silence, treading along the taut atmosphere with delicate balance.

Except, Catra’s equilibrium becomes lopsided as her mouth betrays her, again. “I suppose it can’t be helped, then,” says Catra. “I yield,” and she holds her arms high in a mark of surrender. 

Adora’s face is calm, neutral— the opposite of a winner’s demeanor. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” Adora says, closing distance, “It was an even match with no clear victor— I can’t accept your surrender. Not like _this_ , anyway.”

Catra doesn’t miss the slyness in her veiled remark. “You Bright Moon folk are much too earnest for your own good,” says Catra, grinning. And then she kneels to pick up the sword opposite her and places it in Adora’s hand. Catra’s hand hovers over Adora’s and gently guides Adora’s fingers around the hilt.

“I suppose—“ Adora’s breath hitches in her throat, her eyes on their touching hands, and then, “—I suppose, then, well. Actually, I don’t—well, I don’t really know what to do from here. We never decided on the terms of a draw.” 

“No. No, we didn’t, did we?” 

Adora presses her lips into a thin line, her face scrunching in deep thought. Then it comes to her. “I may have an idea. Find me tomorrow night.”

Catra draws her chin into her neck, her single slanted eyebrow a telltale sign of her confusion. “Find you? How do you figure I would do that?”

“Find me at the Masquerade Ball. Your skill— you’re on another level, vital to whichever kingdom you serve. Surely you must have an invitation,” Adora deduces.

Technically, Adora isn’t wrong. Though she assumed incorrectly about the presumed invitation, she is right about Catra’s prowess with the sword. And now that DT has offered Catra a way in, she stands a chance at unraveling the shrouded seams of the woman before her. But she can’t give herself away. Not yet.

“And what if I can’t find you? What then?”

Adora boasts her most pompous, crooked lips of the day, “If you can’t find me, then,” Adora pauses. A beat, then, “No, actually, that’s incorrect. You’ll find me.”

Catra crosses her arms, “Always speaking with such confidence.”

“No, not confidence,” Adora says, the blue of her eyes darkening into a polished glass reflecting the earliest shades of twilight, “But I guess you could call it faith.” 

For once, Catra has no witty remark, no deflection or mask to hide her dumbfounding smile, a smile that, for so long, eluded Catra much how a boar flees from its hunter. She laughs heartily, an unspoken bashfulness and lost innocence seamlessly twined within each rumble. 

“I suppose I can’t argue with that,” Catra says, “Tomorrow night, then.” She smiles.

“Tomorrow night.”

——

Catra can’t sleep.

After she returned from her escapade in the woods, she immediately changed into her nightgown and retreated to the padded comfort of the cottage bed. Though it has been several days since her arrival, she’s still not accustomed to the plush and voluminous nature of Bright Moon beds. She’s slept on a rock-hard cot her entire life, courtesy of Lady Weaver, as expected. 

Perhaps this is why her back aches, though she surmised it was probably the fall that did most of the damage.

The fall. The woman in the woods. Glacier colored irises that dwarfed the presence of everything around her and sent an intrusive, yet welcomed shiver all along her insides. The streaks of sun-kissed hair, the free strands swaying in the wind like angel’s wings eclipsing golden rays of sunshine. Catra could not for the life of her oust the woman from her mind, nor did she want to. She’s never met anyone like the cryptic stranger. At least, not anyone noteworthy or that had such a profound effect on even the most decrepit parts of her soul.

It’s nearing midnight, Catra guesses, based on the shadows outside the small cottage window, though she isn’t even sure if she trusts her sense of time given her restlessness. She hasn’t seen or heard from DT since earlier in the day; she actually hopes they pulled through in acquiring garments suitable enough for a ball of this calibre. Catra had no reason to care about her attire before this afternoon. But now there’s more at stake. Far more.

She doesn’t want to call it love— because how can she love someone she just met? Perhaps it is a simple matter of physical attraction, the allure and rush of something new. Perhaps it was the way the woman’s scent transported her to another realm, one without the stench of burnt flesh and soot. A persistent and insatiable desire to cradle and caress the woman sleeps through the porous cracks in Catra’s armor; she wants to shield her new ally from the perils of bitter cruelty Catra’s known all her life. Catra doesn’t even know her name.

The spar earlier woke something in Catra— an appetite she didn’t understand, a desire she didn’t know she craved. Each of the woman’s words and movements were loaded with hidden meanings, small intricacies that to anyone else would have gone as unnoticed as one’s own breathing. They were two opposing forces chasing and whirling around the other until they became a formidable torrent of wind and rain, a charged storm with enough heat between them to fuel several hundred hearths if they so wanted. It felt natural— it felt _right_.

Perhaps the most odd observation Catra made of the encounter was that the other woman seemed to regard her as an equal. The blue-eyed maiden saw her as someone worthy of attention, as someone valuable and not to be overlooked. It is a concept of unknown territory to Catra; all her life she’d been made to believe that her only purpose in the world was to serve, to play her role without question or hesitation. Her place would always be the bottom of the barrel, the inferior defect. Catra’s free will was forfeit the day Lady Weaver took her in as her ward.

She doesn’t know why Lady Weaver treated her the way she did; she doesn’t know why her birth mother gave her up and left her at the tide’s whim. At least she had the decency to put her in a basket, she supposes. Every time Catra came close to even a sliver of happiness, something, rather someone, snuffed it out, gleefully licking their fingers and suffocating the faint candle of hope she’d only ever known in her dreams. 

And so she is perplexed; perplexed at why the cosmos brought her to the blonde woman, when her entire life it seemed to take pride in her misery and sorrow. If it weren’t for Scorpia and Entrapta, she may not even be here right now. Maybe the universe took pity and granted her one silver lining. It could not have possibly been because the universe wished for her happiness—it had to be chance, a fluke. 

Dread takes a nasty shape in the pits of her stomach, clawing at her insides with talons of doubt, with jaws of abandonment ripping her to shreds from the inside, spilling over into the lonely chambers of her heart and drowning whatever fleeting happiness accumulated there. The woman called it faith, implying the presence of fate and destiny. Is the cosmos finally granting her mercy? Does she even deserve such a thing, after all the blood on her hands, the suffering she inflicted at the behest of a devil incarnate roaming free on Etheria? 

Is Catra even allowed to want?

She turns for a few more minutes before she decides that trying to sleep now is as futile as walking against a crowd tightly packed in an alleyway. Catra sits up, staring out the cottage window at how Bright Moon castle reflects the glittering blues of moonlight. She steps outside the cottage and props herself against the side wall, sliding herself down until she’s sitting on dirt and grass, dew seeping through her nightgown. She doesn’t care. 

Catra ponders her mission, what the point of it is, why she even entertains the idea of taking someone from her home. In a way, Catra herself was snatched from whatever peace she may have found when Lady Weaver found her on the shore— at least, she thinks it was Lady Weaver who found her. She doesn’t remember the first four years of her life, obviously. Why is she willing to do the same thing now? What kind of validation takes its fuel from the flames of someone else’s suffering? Wouldn't this make her like Lady Weaver? 

”I—” Catra whispers to herself, ”What do I want?” 

She is not expecting an answer— the cosmos never seemed to answer her concerns any other time, and this should be no different. A gentle breeze brushes her lips and dislodges the gown off her left shoulder, exposing the scarred armor that shelters her heart from the world. 

”You seem pensive, darling.” 

Catra presses her lips into a line. “I can't sleep.” Catra tucks her knees into her chest and fixes her gown. 

”Ah. Night terrors?” DT struts over and leans against the wall next to Catra.

”No— I just haven't slept. You can't have night terrors if you're awake.”

“It’s okay to think, you know. Either way, it doesn’t matter to me. I only came to tell you that I brought your garments, and my, they are truly a delight.” 

Catra cocks an eyebrow as she rises, “You act as if I care. You know I’m only going because I have to.”

“On the contrary, darling,” DT says, “There’s something else you’re looking forward to. I can tell. But don’t worry— you’ll turn heads with the garments I had tailored for you.”

Catra takes a deep breath and cracks her knuckles. 

“Great. I look forward to stealing the show from you, then.” Catra’s lip curls to one side and she winks at the lanky figure before her.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

“Goodnight, DT.”

— 

The day is here.

Guests from many other kingdoms would be in attendance: royalty, knights, advisors. The Masquerade Ball only happens every five years— the titanic event is a logistical nightmare for whoever plans it. The resources required to undertake such a leviathan are numerous: the seamstresses must prepare outfits for the monarchs of the castle; the kitchen must make sure the hearths are ready for large scale preparation. The handmaidens and servants must polish every nook and cranny of the ballroom and the upstairs balconies. It is a daunting task, but one that is worthwhile. 

Never has there been a Masquerade Ball without some sort of dramatic incident or revelation. At the ball ten years ago, two knights fought over the affections of another. Five years ago, a nobleman was assassinated on a chamber pot. It would only be safe to assume that this year is no exception to the long list of things-that-happened-at-the-masquerade.

Adora doesn’t mind the ball; she takes pleasure in seeing people immerse themselves in one night of shameless self-indulgence, one night free from the woes of everyday trials and tribulations. It is also amusing watching people sway back and forth like an unstable pendulum after having one too many goblets of Bright Moon wine, one of the finest in all of Etheria. She’s never explicitly had an escort for the ball, as she never really saw the need for one; Adora could do fine on her own. She would accept the invitations of suitors; one waltz, they would ask as they cradled their hand and kissed it. But it was always ever _one_ waltz.

This ball will be no different; Adora is counting on a certain charmer with mismatched eyes to find her, after all. Adora doesn’t remember the last time the air in her lungs felt so liberating and light, like a bird flapping its wings and taking flight for the first time, free from the weight of the constraints and traditions shackling her to the castle. The fight with the stranger in the woods was like a rebirth of sorts— her true self finally breaking free of a sheltered womb, seeing the true beauty of the world for the first time. She’s grateful for the things she has, yes, but there are some things that even the highest bidder could not afford. 

It always unnerved Adora: the way the palace seemed to tiptoe around her, the way people acted as though one rogue gust of wind and she would topple over, shattering into thousands of bits and pieces like some sloppily crafted sculpture. The King made sure that the castle catered to her every need and beckoning call. Though she appreciated the thought, the monotony of the routine made her feel like a prisoner in her own home. 

Of course, dungeons did not have soft beds, or wide windows that allowed natural light to brighten up a room. They didn’t have friends that supported her every decision. No handmaidens that paid meticulous attention to her needs not just because it was their duty, but because they actually loved her. 

Everyone in the kingdom adores Adora. And the neighboring kingdoms know this— including the Kingdom of Shadows. They know that Adora is their pathway to get to King Grayskull and cripple Bright Moon. It’s ironic that someone so revered and loved throughout the realms— because of her earnest and authentic personality, and her compassion towards others— could also prove its unraveling. One would think that someone as important as Adora could do as she pleased. That could not be further from the truth. 

The King loved Adora, and made a vow: he would never let anything happen to his precious flower. The death of the Queen twenty years prior to this day made him a widow. He never remarried. On a walk to purge the voices echoing every mistake off the walls of his mind, King Grayskull stumbled upon a small bundle. It was an infant with soft blonde locks, and eyes the color of a glass statue. 

The infant was dirty, the blanket tarnished; someone abandoned this innocent soul, whose only sin was being born into a world callous enough to allow such cruelty. The King grew attached in an instant. He made the decision then and there: he would raise this child as his own, lay down his life for her if it ever came down to it.

The King stepped foot through a secret entrance in the castle with the carefully wrapped bundle. He summoned his most trusted healer— Madame Razz— and ordered that the baby, a girl, be cleaned and taken care of. Secrets had a way of tiptoeing around the castle, spiraling until they became entangled in themselves, truth confused with falsehoods. When the child came of age, she would inherit the kingdom—the child would be known as one parting gift the Queen left for the world. Only the King and Madame Razz knew the truth. 

”Oh dearie,” Razz says, ”You remind me so much of Mara. Oh, how I miss my Mara.” 

The King named the child Adora. 

-

It’s near around noon now, and Adora has still not made any changes to her wardrobe. She reckons she’d have to summon one of her handmaidens eventually, but for now she’ll enjoy escaping into a dreamland, staring out her vast window into the neverending horizon. There must be so much to see out in the world— copious variations of food to try, desserts to die for. She’s heard of marvels in the wilderness with shimmering cascades of spring water, rumored to have healing properties, and natural steam pools where one could let their burdens vanish into thin air, much like the sweat escaping their pores. 

What drew her attention most, however, were rumors of how the wilderness brought out the true brilliance of starlight: the way they twinkled, the way some decided it was their time to come home and journey across the sky. Some scholars even speculated that at certain times of the year, one could even see the gold, glowing core of the entire universe, decorated, shrouded with unfathomable shades of purple, blue, and green. 

She’d never have a clear view of the stars from Bright Moon— the luminous nature of the castle proved an insurmountable obstacle. Maybe one day she would set out into the world. Maybe one day she would gaze up at the celestial bodies that always seemed to make her feel so small in the grand scheme of things.

One particular tale that piqued her interest was a tale of two star-crossed lovers: She-Ra and C’yra. Legend has it that She-Ra, Goddess of Power, and C’yra, Goddess of Cunning, fought on opposite sides of a brutal war. But when the time came to fight each other, neither could find it in their heart to watch the life fade from the other’s eyes. Instead of striking the final blow, She-Ra and C’yra pulled each other into a fervent kiss, defying every single speck of stardust in the cosmos forcing them to fight each other. 

They were betrayed by their own people for giving into what they deemed selfish impulse, and imprisoned. C’yra, of course, would have none of it, and broke them out, vengefully clawing through anyone who stood in their path. Neither of the pair was heard from again, but not long after their disappearance, a new constellation appeared in the quietest corners of twilight. 

Adora longed to see those stars. If She-Ra and C’yra could forge a love like that in a war torn world, if they could find peace and freedom from the rigid ideologies which chained them to their realms, surely Adora could as well. The stranger in the woods immediately came to mind. Adora wonders if those blue and gold irises, with convoluted patterns unlike any she’s ever seen, contained their own universe within, waiting for someone curious, intrepid enough to explore and willingly get lost in them. It’s possible the stars she longed for were already closer than she thought.

A knock on her door snatches her from the daydream. 

“Come in,” she says. 

Adora turns to face the door and is surprised to see none other than her father— the King, at her chambers. He is an older man now, nearing the end of his journey, though the only people who know this are Adora and few trusted royal court members. The canyons at the corner of his eyes grow deeper and more numerous by the day. Adora doesn’t know what she will do when the inevitable comes. She would rather not dwell on it.

“Father,” Adora says, “I didn’t expect to see you before the ball.” 

The King shuts the door and takes two steps inside but no further, then, “I just wanted to see how you were faring. I know these extravaganzas can be overwhelming for you.” 

And how right he is. Adora’s eyes soften and her lips curve into a fond smile, “I am doing well. I suppose I was just...curious about what’s out there. You know, beyond the mountain skyline.” Adora faces the window, then, “Have you ever seen it?”

The King releases the pressure in his chest.

“I have. It’s beautiful, but perilous. Venturing out there is a gamble— neither life, nor death, is guaranteed.” The King’s voice wavers. 

Silence.

A raven squawks mid flight. A faint galloping from a caravan of carriages sounds off in the distance. 

“Adora,” the King says, “Adora, I care for you a great deal. I know I asked a lot of you, and continue to ask a lot of you.”

Adora runs her fingers through her hair, staring blankly at the world passing her by. “I know you care. I care as well.” _I know my duty, even if it’s not..._

“I trust you will make the right decision when the time comes. But, until then, I ask only one thing of you. Keep safe. If not for me, for yourself. I’ll see you at the ball.” The King exits her chambers, a handmaiden entering in his place. 

It is time.

— 

”I’m honestly impressed that you managed to get a perfect fit, ” Catra says, staring at a reflection of herself in still, glassy water. 

”I am both humbled and offended that you think I could let you down when it comes to formal attire, ” DT says, licking their lips, ”but I’ll take whatever compliments I can get. They fuel me, you know.”

Catra rolls her eyes and scoffs, ”Don’t get used to it.” 

The pair make their way toward the castle drawbridge. Catra’s stomach tightens as her breaths quicken and the blood in her head begins pounding with unrelenting vigor. She has a vague idea of why her body is reacting the way it is. But the more she thinks about it, the less control she maintains; this is unacceptable.

Catra takes a deep breath as they get closer and closer to the drawbridge. DT wraps their arm around Catra’s and playfully leans against her shoulder. 

“Hmm. I need a pet name for you,” DT says, ”You look so cute right now. I think I will call you...Kitten.” 

“You will only call me that if you have a death wish,” Catra retorts as she glares. “Also, I am _not_ your fucking pet.”

DT leans into Catra, “Whatever you say, _Kitten._ ”

This is going to be a long night.

—

Goblets clang in toasts to longevity and prosperity, the sounds of sloshing wine (some of it spilling on the polished floors), and hearty laughter all around. From the balcony residing beside a set of spiral stairs, the variance in masks in the grand hall is prominent. It is an assortment of every color and shape imaginable: white half-masks; black ones which covered the entire brow, nose and eyes; multi-colored masks with feathers along the rim. Some are even adorned with gemstones and jewels. 

Catra was initially shocked at how well DT knew what style and flair she wanted to present. Her black and white mask, the rift in colors diagonal in the middle, is the proof. ‘To match your eyes, Kitten,’ they said. Then again, DT is a performer, and probably has a better grasp on her infinitely tangled web of emotions than even she. Figuring out her taste was child’s play in comparison.

While everyone around her gorges in excess wine and forced conversations, Catra’s searching eyes dart across, below, sometimes even above (for reasons unknown) the skyscraping ballroom. Sure, she’s attending on behalf of her mission. But, she won’t deny that there’s another sinfully attractive reason she’s here as well. Perhaps tonight would put the bellowing whispers in her head into a deep slumber, or at the least, a very long nap.

Catra turns around and leans against the railing, arms outstretched, observing the festivities with her head cocked over her left shoulder. A string quartet in the far corner of the grand hall begins playing a mellow song; it isn’t as upbeat as the previous melodies, but Catra wouldn’t call it a lullaby, either. It’s strangely soothing and relaxing, the texture reminiscent of a masterfully woven silken coverlet drifting swimmingly across her bare skin. Catra can’t remember the last time she allowed herself the simple pleasure of musical appreciation.

Nothing like this exists in the Kingdom of Shadows. The food doesn’t mesh with her palate the same way; every lit room reminds her of the darkest hours before dawn. Lord Hordak never hosts any type of celebration. The closest thing they have is a traitor’s execution, with disenfranchised folk chanting _‘Cut the rope!’._ Catra’s travelled to other regions before, but she’s never actually stepped foot into a palace like the one she is in now.

A finger taps her right shoulder, breaking her short moment of solitude.

“You look so serious, darling,” DT says, a finger stroking Catra’s arm. “Shall I get you a goblet of wine for the nerves? You seem like you could benefit from it.”

Catra rights her head, and flashes a warning look. “I need to stay vigilant, and I can’t do that if I’m _drunk_.” 

“It’s a ball, Kitten. You stick out if you’re _not_ drunk,” they say, “Unless you’re afraid there’s something you’ll miss?”

Catra rolls her eyes and scoffs. Why does DT always have to be so...DT? She takes one final glance at them before pushing herself off the railing and heading for the stairs. “I’m going down. I’ll find you later.”

“All business, no fun,” DT pouts.

As Catra descends the spiral staircase, she thinks she spots a familiar head of dirty blonde hair shuffling through the crowd and heading for the opposite corner of the room. Could it be…? Catra shoves her way across the grand hall and approaches the blonde figure, bumping others along the way. (Not that anything could stand in her way when she is intent on finding something). Right then, the figure turns around, her eyes caught in Catra’s intense stare.

It isn’t _her._

The woman bashfully smiles as she darts toward one of the servants carrying a platter of cheese and meats. Catra’s expression drops, disappointed that she’d once again failed to find the woman anchoring her to this cursed ball in the first place. 

Then, a plump man in navy blue robes and a white mask covering only half his face rises midway up the stairs to make an announcement.

“Our honored guests! We invite you to join us in dance!” the plump man yells.

The man’s invitation spurs a second wind into the crowd as everyone scrambles to find their partner. DT slides next to Catra and loops their arm into hers, a snide side smile rising on their face. Catra cocks an eyebrow; she wants to murder DT for dragging her onto the main court without asking. Suddenly, her eyes lock onto a gorgeous blonde woman in a red dress, a gold mask complementing her sapphire gems.

Gazes lock. The dance begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will probably never recover from season 5.


	4. The Imperfection of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dances are had, and secrets are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the wait. I've been a bit distracted lately, but that's a good thing ;) This chapter is a bit longer than the previous ones. I felt like after a long time between updates, you deserve a feast. Anyways, enjoy. Once again, shoutout to nuttyshake for always reading my stuff. :>

Adora’s had enough of the ball already, and they haven’t even announced the first dance. Adora meeting people is one thing: shaking hands, exchanging formalities and faux pleasantries. It’s another to constantly feel like she has to wiggle out of uncomfortably invasive conversations.

It was a fool’s wish, it seems: to think her mask would grant her some form of anonymity so that she could freely roam about without worrying about some stout, wealthy man asking her for a dance. Unfortunately, five years molded her physique into something completely otherworldly, and even with a mask, she outshines every single person without meaning to. Adora doesn’t even have her hair done as elaborately as she could; she deemed it unnecessary. 

Plus, something (someone) else is on her mind, and Adora would be damned if anyone stands in her way. She can’t let wandering eyes distract her from her first taste of true freedom. 

Far too many people desire to speak to Adora as if she were their sister, a longtime friend, or even their wife. While many suitors come and go, spilling snippets of their ‘tragic’ pasts, as if their traumas were badges of honor, Adora has yet to remember any of their names. It isn’t that she dislikes people, no. Okay, maybe it is— maybe deep down, somewhere, all of these people represent something she resents deep within herself.

Everyone in the grand hall is an actor. Everyone plays their role in a predetermined story, the outcome decided long before the characters even knew what made them tick. After all, could anyone really walk around in a dress that obtrusive and act as though they were eager to wear it? Could anyone possibly enjoy mingling in a herd of unknown faces, sweat crawling along the backs of their necks in this suffocating humidity? 

Hundreds of guests, all packed into one large castle hall, with some stragglers here and there— could anyone possibly enjoy being just another one of many? The people in the grand hall, this masquerade, is just another link on the intrusive and ever-persistent ball and chain holding her captive inside her own flesh. 

Adora’s acutely observant tonight, mentally taking note of people’s expressive mannerisms, but mostly searching for one set of mismatched eyes that she could recognize anywhere. She’s getting impatient. If anything, Adora is more annoyed that she can’t simply snap her fingers and blink everyone except the stranger from the woods away— not permanently, of course. If only the magic spells from the old tales were real. 

‘You’ll find me.’ 

The words carved themselves a home within the caverns of her ears, echoing every time she thought she caught sight of her coveted prize. Not that the woman is a prize to be won— Adora absolutely detests when suitors bicker over who would get the first dance as if she didn’t even exist or have a voice of her own. No, Adora doesn’t view the stranger as a prize; her eyes, however, her eyes are an addiction unlike any she’s ever known. Adora never stood a chance; she was hooked at first glance.

Adora slides behind a pillar next to the spiral staircase, where she could peacefully pick the room apart. A familiar shag of elegantly unruly hair glides down the spiral staircase and to the other side of the grand hall. That has to be her, she’s approaching another woman with blonde hair and—

“Adora!” 

“Oh, Glimmer,” Adora says, slightly disappointed, but always happy to see her friend, “Weren’t you with Bow?”

Glimmer lets out a sharp huff, crosses her arms, and then, “Glad to see you, too. What are you doing back here? The festivities are over there!” 

Adora pauses for a moment to admire just how well Glimmer cleans up. Her hair is combed to the side, her mask a light shade of lavender, adorned with a white jewel in the center, and smaller stones along the rim. Glimmer’s wearing a white dress with purple accents along the wide collar and waistline; it goes well with the gold pendant around her neck.

Adora shrugs, “You know how I get with these things,” she says, “I wanted a break. You look great, by the way.” 

Glimmer smiles, “Thanks— I would say I stitched it myself but we all remember how that turned out.” Adora would never forget the day Glimmer tried to turn the one dress she actually enjoyed wearing into a tunic. 

Adora looks back toward where she spotted the other blonde woman and her person of interest. They’ve vanished— where did they go? Adora swallows and feels as though she could choke on her own gulp. The formerly inviting flickers of dancing candlelight turn into long streaks of darkness, projecting ominous, moving silhouettes along the walls of the grand hall. Adora’s chest tightens; what if that was the stranger and she ran off with the wrong woman? Did Adora misplace her trust? How could she put so much faith into someone she only met for one day?

“Adora? Adora!” 

And then she’s forced to abandon her objective— for now. At least, she hopes it’s just for now.

“Sorry, Glimmer.”

“Are you okay? You’ve been acting a bit strange all week, especially last night,” Glimmer says.

“I’m fine!” Adora snaps and realizes what she’s done. “Sorry. I’m fine, Glimmer, I just don’t feel like myself tonight, that’s all.”

Adora makes one last-ditch effort to find the stranger in the endless sea of people; she figures she would have an easier time from the balcony adjacent to the spiral staircase. 

“I’ll be back, Glimmer, okay?” Adora says, “I just want a better view—“

“Our honored guests! We invite you to join us in dance!” 

A round man comes into her field of vision, wearing navy blue robes and a white half mask. He has a graying beard, recently trimmed, she assumes, as the hairs look a bit too perfect aligned. It doesn’t matter. Before she has a chance to resume her prior activity, Glimmer grabs her by the wrist and drags her to the center of the hall. 

“May I have this first dance, my lady?” Glimmer teases.

And then the tension holding Adora’s breath hostage vanishes. She wraps a hand around Glimmer’s waist, and holds the other hand slightly below eye level— Glimmer is a short woman. 

“Of course, my lady.” Adora teases back. As she takes a quick look to her left she sees them: the blue and gold jewels that lay a claim to the confines of her mind, the lips that invaded her dreams the night before. The duel plays in her head in a never-ending loop, and if this is to be her prison, Adora’s more than happy as a captive. 

It looks like the stranger from the woods didn’t run off with another woman after all—a strange sense of relief floods the barren chambers of her heart. Adora does take notice that the woman has a partner, but for some reason, now that they’ve locked eyes, now that they’ve acknowledged their undivided attention for each other, Adora doesn’t care. 

Soon, she’ll dive deeper into those blue and gold pools of uncertainty and excitement. Soon can’t come soon enough.

—

Catra’s hands rest on DT’s waistline and shoulder as they sway to the melody echoing through the grand hall. DT seems to be enjoying themselves; that makes one of them, at least. 

“My, my, Kitten. You've not once looked at me this whole dance,” DT’s smug lips curve into a playful frown. “Your aloofness wounds me.”

Catra scoffs. “Tch. Contrary to your own beliefs, DT,” Catra says, still eyeing the stranger across the way, “People have better things to do than enable your theatrics.”

“Theatrics! I’m offended, Kitten,” DT says, their pointed teeth now shining through a mischievous grin. “If I didn’t know better, I would say it’s you enabling your own theatrics. Or did you think I didn’t notice you staring at the woman in red?”

Catra briefly tenses, then, “Am I not allowed to stare at things, now? Oh, please forgive me, DT, I beg of you!”

“You’re forgiven, I suppose. You should ask her for a waltz. Unless you’re afraid?” 

“Oh, I am very afraid, DT. But not for reasons you think.” Catra finally looks at DT, if only for a second.

The song ends as another begins, and the people on the grand hall floor swap partners at random. Catra reluctantly dances with a young man dressed in all black, save for a white mask and a red rose pinned to his chest. As they whirl around to swap partners once more, Catra snatches the rose off the man’s clothing without so much as a flinch; he doesn’t even notice.

They’re getting closer. They’re only one partner away from each other, one song away from knotting two estranged strands of fate into one intertwined thread of destiny. 

This is real.

This is happening.

Adora practically counts the song’s beats. The high-pitched notes bounce off walls in a staccato crescendo. It’s nearly time. Another song begins.

Adora sees her. Right as she approaches, though, the other woman smirks and then veers off to the left— one partner away from Adora. Adora partners up with a woman with a green dress and black mask. Why would she do this? Oh well. Adora can play games too.

Catra doesn’t know what on Etheria possessed her to flee further away from the one person she actually wanted to see tonight. She could not look like she was running away. She figured her only way out: she’d turn it into a game of cat and mouse. Catra’s good at games.

She sees the red dress at the corner of her golden eye, and Catra catches fire. Keep it together, she thinks. Her partner, a built buff woman with a purple mask gives her a strange look, followed by one of confusion. At least this person doesn’t want to talk; Catra doesn’t have time for that.

They’re around midway through the song, Adora observes. She’s heard this one many times before. Even when Adora isn’t making direct eye contact she still feels watched. Their eyes meet again, and this time it’s Adora who smirks. Adora polishes her stance, her back shooting upright.

“Not bad, stranger,” Catra says.

“What?” Catra’s partner asks.

Oh no. Catra forgot she was in someone else’s company for the time being.

“You’re not bad,” Catra says, covering her slip-up, “at this dancing thing, I mean.” Catra goes back to mindlessly dancing as her partner simply nods and smiles. Good. She doesn’t want to talk.

On a loud musical beat, everyone on the floor shuffles once again, twirling into different partners.

“Okay, Adora,” Bow says, somehow ending up as her partner despite not being seen on the floor before this, “Glimmer says you’re not yourself and after watching you for the past few dances, I think she’s right.”

Wonderful, another pep talk. Does it have to be here? Now? Adora sighs and sags her shoulders.

“I’m fine, Bow,” she whispers, “I just have things on my mind.”

“Well, I’m not blind. You have been staring at the same person all night long, and you’re dancing more than you usually do at these events.”

“Maybe I’m feeling differently this time, then,” Adora snaps. Her expression hardens then softens. Her friends are just concerned, she thinks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

Bow smiles, “It’s okay, Adora. Glimmer and I are just looking out for you.” They spin and Adora locks eyes with Glimmer, who normally indulges in all the dancing, but is instead watching attentively from the sidelines.

They spin again, and this time, Adora locks eyes with _her_. It’s brief, and surprisingly neutral; still, Adora can’t help but feel warmth.

“I know,” Adora finally responds, “I know you are. I can tell you, though, that I will be perfectly fine.” She smiles at Bow. “And, if something does happen, I know you and Glimmer would be there.”

“Of course,” he smiles, “We look after each other.” Bow nods and walks away as the song ends.

Catra glances at the quartet. She didn’t miss her chance at a dance, did she? Catra resolves to finally approach her when the plump old man’s annoyingly booming voice breaks her focus.

“This dance is a special one— the old ones called it the Waltz of Two Moons. It’s only tradition that we partake, as we have for decades past.”

Oh. Is that why people stopped moving around? Catra’s at a loss; what on Etheria is the dance of the whatever? She didn’t even realize there were different types of waltzes— to her, they are all one and the same. She’s tempted to abandon the floor; she would rather not make a fool of herself. A red streak at the corner of her eye pulls her out of her self-sabotaging tunnel. 

Adora surprises herself; she never imagined her body capable of moving with such urgency. She stands before her coveted stranger, suddenly unsure of what to do next.

Catra startles, then, “Found you.” Good recovery. 

“I think I found you, actually. You were about to walk away, weren't you?”

Catra scoffs but her embarrassment is clear, mask or not. “What if it isn’t me? How do you know I’m not just some impostor?” _Really— this is the best you could come up with?_

Adora chortles, “Please. I’d know your eyes anywhere.”

The room stops. The flicker of every lit candle freezes in place. Every flutter of every dress, fixed in its current position. Bodies once in motion halt, as if the puppeteer running the show decided enough was enough. Time is no longer absolute.

An unknown force steals borrowed breaths from Catra’s lungs— or perhaps Catra willingly gives them away. She can’t tell. This familiarity is, ironically, one she is not familiar with. Her whole life, the closest she’d ever come to anything remotely as warm as this woman’s aura was when spending time with Scorpia— and even then, that spark never quite fanned into a flame, remaining but a collection of embers trapped in an eternal, but damned, loop.

It’s the first time anyone’s noticed Catra for something other than tactics and war. Burnt ashes of the fallen taint every other compliment. But this; this is something new. Maybe she can be someone different; maybe her destiny isn’t set in stone. Perhaps she could, for once, author her own story, and defy the conclusion she once deemed imminent. She was a soldier, after all: soldiers rarely get happy endings.

But with _her_ , she’s not a soldier.

“I could say the same,” Catra says. She extends her arm, a lifeline in an infinite pool of strangers, “I would like this dance.”

Adora’s lips stay stoic. But her eyes say everything left unsaid: they say ‘Of course. The pleasure is mine.’ 

What Adora actually says is—

“Not even going to ask me?” Adora’s face crinkles into a blend of playful innocence and devious intent. “What kind of woman do you take me for?”

Catra cocks her head, then, “Well, I already know your answer. You invited me. Remember?”

“Mm, yes. I did, didn’t I?” Adora says, “I did invite you to the ball, yes. But never did I mention a dance.”

A halfway scowl forms on Catra’s face. And as suddenly as it came, it disappeared. “Well, if you want to play games,” Catra says, pulling closer to Adora, “You might want to make sure your opponent didn’t make the rules.” And Catra begins turning around, walking over toward the stairs.

Surely the woman is bluffing— right?

As Catra gets closer and closer to the stairs, Adora’s pulse quickens: it’s now, or never. She moves toward Catra, full speed, and suddenly stops when she comes face to face with two narrowed blue and gold gems. An inch of stubborn will is all that separates them.

Adora huffs and crosses her arms. “How did you know I would—“

Catra interrupts with snickers. “Oh, please,” Catra says, “I invented this game.” Catra leans in and whispers into Adora’s ear. “And I know you didn’t ask me to find you just to watch me disappear.”

Adora falters. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Adora steels herself, confident, and cocky, even.

“You’re right,” Adora says, “What are you going to do about it?” She flashes a crooked smile.

“Admirable stranger,” Catra begins, “May I have this dance?”

It’s the last thing Adora expects: it seems to be a common theme with this woman. It’s the last thing Catra expects, too: had it been anyone else, she most definitely would have walked away. Well, if they had Catra’s attention in the first place.

Instead of a verbal answer, Adora simply grabs Catra’s hand and leads them back toward the center of the grand hall. Then, she lets go.

“What are you doing?” Catra asks, “Are we not dancing?”

Adora realizes Catra probably has no idea what kind of dance they’re about to do. “This is a special dance,” Adora begins, “And there are two rules: do not look away from me, and…” Adora trails off, “...no touching — not even a single hair.” 

Catra gulps. Sure, the blonde woman has beautiful eyes, but to allow someone to stare straight into the belly of the beast, straight into every fleeting stream of emotions she has; how is Catra going to do this for a full dance? She could back out now. Perhaps she can excuse herself on the pretense that she’s suddenly feeling a lightness in her head, a result of too much fine wine that a soldier like herself dares not drink for fear of sensory impairment.

But—

She stumbles.

What if this is the start of the first truly good thing in Catra’s life? How would she feel ten years from now; how much will the what-ifs and could-haves and have-nots haunt her? Why would she let her only lifeline slip between the cracks in her fingers? Chance has always seemed against her from the start, a part of a rigged game hellbent on beating her. But chance implies an attempt, and perhaps, this attempt could finally prove a success. Of course, if she plays to avoid losing, she’s already lost; if she doesn’t play, she can’t win either. 

Catra has nothing to lose.

And Catra only plays to win.

“No touching, huh? That seems rather unproductive, don’t you think?” Catra grins, then, “Are you sure you’ll last that long?”

Adora chuckles, knowing she’s walking into a trap and going for it regardless. “Do you want to know why this dance is named the way it is?”

Catra withdraws her hand, and waits for Adora to take the lead. Adora raises one arm, bent at the elbow, and motions for Catra to raise the opposite arm in the same manner. Adora shifts her body so that their arms perfectly aligned, their bodies now slightly offset as opposed to directly facing each other. Catra observes the room around them, and notices everyone has their free hand right behind their back. She follows.

Catra smiles. “No. But I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

They hold their position for the ten longest seconds ever, and the quartet begins to play, signaling the start of the most charged war of wills. Their hands are so close and occupy such a small corner of the universe, it almost feels dishonest to say they aren’t touching. And despite it, Catra’s never felt as connected to anyone as she does now, the flame between them hopping over the chasm with ease; the heat pooling in her mind and body’s very core.

Their touch transcends the physical world.

Catra grins, “You never said anything about talking while we dance.”

Adora returns it, “No. No, but,” Adora pauses and her eyes narrow, “don’t you think some silences say far more than words ever could?”

Catra opens her mouth to speak, but stops before any words can escape. Instead, she opts to lose herself in the stranger’s eyes and follows her lead.

The waltz does not seem much like a traditional dance. The pair merely rotate around each other simultaneously, while holding their hands centimeters apart, their movements ghosting each other but never making physical contact. The air between them is hot, caught in a bubble. The pressure within grows with each second as it floats. It’s a strange feeling, Catra thinks: to have something within her grasp, attainable, and for once the only obstacle being her own accord. Catra isn’t used to having a choice. Not that this could be considered a choice, either—only a fool would part with the muse of a lifetime.

Adora leads with so much confidence, it almost convinces her that she’s not afraid of the blue and gold enigma’s powerful draw. 

Almost. 

The reality is a vastly disparate truth: Adora’s never felt more afraid of how exposed she’s become, of how much further forward she accidentally leapt without so much as a glance. Her understanding of consequence is rudimentary at best, though spending most of her days in the castle certainly doesn’t help the situation. This is why, when chance comes knocking on her door, she knows nothing more than to take a leap, not of faith, but of hope. Hope that she’ll only land on her feet, surrounded not by barren cacti and dried out soil, but lush meadows and fresh glacial scents. By this point, it’s become a ritual. 

Adora’s never been under the spell of a connection quite this intoxicating and liberating. Adora never had the desire to have casual conversation about her likes and dislikes. Adora’s mind has never been quite as occupied as it has the past few days. The princess of Bright Moon, should, by class standing, be more well-acquainted with these experiences, for her royal privilege grants her far more opportunity than anyone else in the kingdom. Somehow, those experiences were kept locked away in a chest. But every lock has a key.

And it was then Adora learned that a key could be a person. 

“Are you still with me, admirable stranger?” Catra inquires, her eyes wandering toward the other woman’s lips, “Surely you’ve danced with someone you’ve fancied before, no?” Catra only plays to win.

“I have not,” Adora shakes her head, “In truth, this may be the first time I’ve ever—“ Adora stops speaking as she realizes the implications of what she just said.

Oh.

Adora takes the bait, this time unknowingly, and unwillingly.

Adora can fix this— right?

“That’s not—“ she begins, breath and speech tangled in one another, “It’s—“ Adora’s step falters and for a second, the pair is completely off rhythm. Thankfully, Catra is a quick study, and she steers them back on course.

“So, you do like me,” Catra says, her narrowed eyes glowing with victory, her pointed canines adorning a smile so sharp, it completely shreds through the tightly woven drape separating them from the rest of the room. “Do you deny it?”

Adora isn’t a liar, but she isn’t a pushover either. Can she afford an honest answer? How can she do so without giving herself away, while simultaneously catching the other woman in a crafty trap of her own?

Adora bites her lower lip, the answer on the tip of her tongue. But she’s stubborn, and, naturally, competitive. What does she have to lose by answering truthfully? More importantly, what does she have to gain? That answer is simple.

And absolutely worth everything, Adora decides.

But she can still play the game. She can still tilt the scales slightly more in her favor, if not for her competitive nature, then for reassurance that she can still maintain some form of control. For so long, discipline and duty guided Adora’s every dream and desire; every walk in the garden; every visit to the small villages on the outskirts; every moment she decided that her balcony was the one place that offered the best view of the stars and the world around her.

Discipline and duty has always been her compass— that is, until Adora opened her eyes for the first time and saw two forces of nature that she simply could not resist. In this moment, Adora lays down her arms and surrenders any and all control she’s ever had. She allows herself the pleasure of simply being; surrenders herself to something far more rewarding than phony wishes born of obligation rather than desire.

In this fleeting moment, she is purely Adora.

She’s done resisting.

“I don’t deny it. You’re quite the charmer,” Adora says, confident, almost smug, “But I know you’re also fond of me. Do you deny it?” She gambles and hopes for a payoff.

Catra wrinkles her nose for a split-moment, “I found you, did I not? If I denied it, I would not only be a liar,” Catra inches forward and nearly touches Adora, “I would be an idiot, too.”

“Well, we can both agree you’re already somewhat there, at least, on the idiot part,” Adora teases, “You were quite easy to capture. That was some nap.”

Rather than taking offense to the other woman’s remarks, Catra’s expression softens. “I suppose it was the first time I’ve ever really felt somewhat at peace,” she says, “And I might not be tied to a tree, but,” and Catra leans in to whisper in Adora’s ear, still careful enough to avoid making contact, “I think I might be starting to enjoy the view.”

It’s the most Catra can say without stripping her own skin off and leaving herself vulnerable. She mentally slaps herself; she’s still playing a game, and Catra doesn’t lose. But maybe, for once, losing wouldn’t be the worst outcome. 

Adora’s breath hitches the second she feels the woman’s breath lightly ghost her ear. “Do you read?”

“That came out of nowhere,” Catra says, confused, “But I suppose I’ve read some things here and there. I wouldn’t say my way of life allows me much in the form of access to things to read. But I do read stories from time to time.”

The end of the song approaches fast and Adora realizes she isn’t quite ready for this dance to be over. She looks directly into the eyes of the main violinist of the quartet, who immediately picks up on Adora’s unspoken request, and the song continues on.

“What kind of stories?” Adora asks.

“The kind I would be stupid to believe could ever happen. This world would rather burn to spite itself than allow anyone a happy ending.” Catra scoffs, and for a moment her shoulders tense up and her eyes narrow into a piercing glare into nothingness.

Adora relaxes her face, “My favorite story doesn’t have a happy ending.”

“How does it end?”

“Well, I can’t spoil the fun. But,” Adora takes a breath as she realizes that her feet have taken on steps of their own; her mind’s been preoccupied, after all. “What if I told you it doesn’t end at all?”

A story with no ending, Catra wonders. She supposes a story can have no ending if the original text remained unfinished, or if the tale simply ceased to have cultural value and was instead lost in the infinite archives of time. But that doesn’t sound like what the woman is saying, not even remotely.

Catra remains silent as she senses there’s much more to the blonde woman’s answer. 

Adora asks another question. “Do you want to know why this dance is called the Waltz of Two Moons?”

Catra raises her left eyebrow, “I will be honest, I thought it was just another way you Bright Moon folk plaster your name on things that probably never belonged to you.” As Adora flinches, Catra regrets her markedly bold reply, “But please, do tell me the reason. I’m always happy to learn.”

The tempo quickens as does Adora’s heartbeat. Her posture is back to its original proper form. “Well, as you know, these two moons never touch, obviously. One rises before the other and the other usually sets before the other rises. But every few years their paths cross,” Adora’s expression widens with an adorable childlike curiosity that Catra has only ever seen once, and it was when Scorpia discovered what a cat was.

“And when they do, it’s like the world stops for a few moments and everything is just...right.”

“Sounds romantic if you ask me,” Catra says, clearly amused, but also entranced.

“It can be romantic if that’s how you want to see it. But this dance—well, when those two moons cross, everything is as it should be. Everyone can eventually cross paths with their moon, no matter how impossible it may seem.” The music begins to slow once again, then, “Of course, that’s what they say. But I think they might be right, you know.”

It takes a moment for the woman’s words to sink in. A connection that transcends the physical— surely the woman refers to emotional connection, right? But Catra’s seen it: every emotional connection she’s ever known never lasted the ultimate test. Everything is conditional; everyone wants something. How does one even know if this supposed connection is genuine? For Catra, the world’s never quite felt right, with the exception of—

Oh.

It hits her: the impossible chance of crossing paths with this stranger. The fluke: Catra simply being in the wrong place at the right time. The surprise lifeline that knocked her off her horse and onto the prospering forest floor. The compulsive urge to dive straight into those beautiful ocean orbs headfirst.

Could it be?

The words come out before she can stop them.

“That’s...actually a very profound backstory for a dance,” Catra says. Wonderful. She’s going soft. She can’t afford to show weakness. Or could she?

The melody slows to almost to a complete halt. The song is almost over. Adora doesn’t want this to end. When this dance ends, the royal court will make announcements. No one will be dancing, and everyone would be silent, listening to bolstering speeches about prosperity and the common good. Adora eyes the musicians from the corner of her eye, then shifts her attention to the stairs, where part of the royal court descends now. They’ll need her for the announcements soon.

Instead, she makes one of the most impulsive decisions of her life. “Would you walk with me? To some place quieter?”

Catra’s awe is quickly replaced with mischief, with a dash of curiosity, and a pinch of bashfulness. “Some place quiet— are you trying to—“

“—yes or no?” Adora asks with urgency.

Catra eyes the stranger with a cautious suspicion. She is in the heart of the enemy’s empire, after all. But Catra has never shied away from precarious situations. In fact, she thrives in them, adapts to them. This is no different than a duel.

She tilts her head forward and smirks, “Thought you’d never ask.”

Before Adora can react, Catra’s lurching forward and taking the other woman’s hand in her own, eager for the journey ahead. When Adora’s thoughts finally catch up, her first instinct is to quickly turn, for she dare not show the heat on her ears and the edges of her cheeks that the mask can’t cover. It’s almost incredible how something natural like this— two paths converging onto one— can seem so unnatural as well. Though, Adora supposes that this being her first experience like this contributes to the feeling. And yet it’s also familiar, like it’s always been there, lying in wait, waiting for the right person to break the right locks.

“What brings you to Bright Moon?” Adora breaks the loaded silence between them. If she’s going to let herself go, she may as well learn as much as she can.

Catra isn’t surprised at the question. In fact, she is more annoyed than anything; a reminder of the reason she’s here isn’t something she had on tonight’s agenda. Of course, she wouldn’t tell the other woman why she was really here. She can’t tell anyone.

“I’m here on behalf of someone. Nothing special really. Just trade and such.” There: that’s true enough to not be a lie, but false enough to not be the truth.

Weaving through a horde of people is another thing Catra didn’t have on her agenda; she’s never enjoyed crowded places, least of all indoor crowded spaces. Unfamiliar bodies pressing and bumping against her are usually reserved for scrappy battles where she’s knocked off her horse and forced to engage in ground combat. Though, anyone who bumps her in battle knows better than to challenge her.

Suddenly, she feels it. The long slender fingers keeping their hands locked together tighten, not enough to cause any pain, but enough to silently say, ‘it’s okay, I’m with you.’ It’s a different feeling: safe, but not completely sheltered, like the golden-haired woman acknowledges her ability to take care of herself.

It’s liberating.

They walk in silence after breaking free from the main area, ascending one of the smaller side staircases to the upper floor. The only problem: Adora has no idea where they’re going. It’s not because she’s unfamiliar with the castle. On the contrary, Adora knows the castle better than almost anyone else. And it’s exactly why she can’t decide.

She groans internally. This needs to be perfect. She can’t make a fool of herself here, not when they’re alone in her home territory and she holds every advantage possible. Not when she’s somehow managed to escape the ball with someone who finally sees her. Not when this could be the end of one tale and the beginning of another.

“We’re almost there,” says Adora.

Catra hasn’t actually paid much attention to her surroundings, focusing instead on the elegant motions of the other woman’s silky blonde hair— the way it sways like a sunflower dancing with the wind, the way her eyes seem to bathe the world in the calmest shade of blue despite being trapped beneath a mask. Mission? What mission? If they ever passed by anything with critical information, Catra most certainly missed it— and she doesn’t care. Right now, she’s not a soldier.

Maybe she never was.

“So, are you going to tell me where you’re whisking me off to?” Catra asks with a half smug, half genuinely curious expression.

Adora turns her head to the side so that only her profile and one eye can be seen, “I don’t need to tell you,” she effortlessly pushes a massive, white wooden door adorned with gold embellishments and trimmings, “I’ll show you.”

The first thing Catra notices is the instant drop in temperature and the brisk breeze tickling the few strands of hair that refused to cooperate (not that DT helped matters either). The second thing she notices is the moving patterns on the wall, painted with an orange hue that moves with the wind. But the third thing she notices…

They’re extra bright tonight.

When Adora was younger, she would flee to this part of the castle whenever she wanted company. Or at least, a fraction of it. She would try to count them; name them; make up stories about them. Ever since she’d heard the tale of She-Ra and C’yra, something felt out of place, or just downright missing.

And so, she retreated here, to one of the more secluded balconies overlooking the kingdom, though, instead of looking at what she knew, she chose to bask in the unknown. The scholars called them stars. 

It didn’t matter that she couldn’t touch them; it didn’t matter that they only kept her company at night. It didn’t matter that they were physically unreachable. They were something to wonder about, a place of solace and escape.

“A balcony?” Catra asks, “You brought me to a balcony?”

Adora’s stomach pits. “It’s one of my favorite places in the castle,” her voice shakes, “but, we can go elsewhere if you’d li—“

A high pitched laugh pierces the air, and then, a tender sigh.

“It’s not that,” Catra says, still smiling fondly, “It was just, well, unexpected. This isn’t something I get to do usually or…” she tilts her head and squints up at the sky, “...or ever, actually.” The moment is peaceful, minus the sudden sinking feeling in Catra’s chest. What did the stranger just say?

It doesn’t matter. She’s probably a frequent guest.

As Catra’s gaze remains locked on the bright orbs blanketing the sky, Adora’s eyes remain fixated on the way the stranger’s lips slowly curl upward. Though, it would be much easier to see her damn eyes if she just…

Adora hesitates. And then...

“May I?” she finally asks, and Catra must have been so immersed in the marvel above her because when Adora gently moves her hand up and lightly grips her forearm, she recoils and practically jumps two feet back.

It’s a reflex: an instinct she should have never needed to learn, but one that many times dictated how much heartache and suffering she would experience that day. Her tolerance has grown through the years. The more it happened, the more desensitized she became. But the reflex was never just about the physical pain. No, it went far deeper than that: it was always about predicting that single, all-powerful jolt of fear. It was about fortifying herself for the inevitable. After a while, the pain was nothing more than an annoying series of scrapes and itches. 

“Are you alright?” Did Adora do something wrong? In the short time she’s spent with the stranger nothing like this has ever happened before— and they fought in the forest. Adora’s eyes grow concerned and empathetic; this has to be her fault. She needs to fix it, somehow, if she even can. She needs to—

“It’s alright,” begins Catra, “Truly.” She pauses, looks down at her forearm, and back into Adora’s blue irises. They’re calmer than a twilight sky, comforting; Catra can wrap herself in them and sleep as though she had no worry in the world. The way her blonde locks frame her innocent expression, like the sun itself shapes its light to allow others a chance to look without a sting in their eyes. “I’m fine.”

Adora nods, but senses the sudden shift in the ambience. “Okay.”

It’s an awkward few minutes. Catra walks toward the balcony railing and, rather than focusing on the celestial bodies above, looks out at the kingdom— not that she could see much in the darkness. But she could make out the edges of the furthest structures, faintly backlit with a blue ethereal glow. What’s it like? To live somewhere like this, where one could simply take a midnight stroll to take in their world without a suffocating tightness in their chest? To simply say, ‘Yes, we can do that,’ and then do it, without question or judgement?

Catra feels a presence next to her and as she snaps out of her reverie, notices the blue-eyed stranger eyeing her intently. “You asked me something earlier,” Catra says, and looks down at her arm in embarrassment, “what is it you asked, again?”

Adora isn’t sure of whether or not she should answer. Wasn’t it her very question that started this chain reaction of silence, followed by another, somehow more tense, silence? Maybe it isn’t that simple.

“I asked if I could,” Adora gulps, “If I could unmask you. Or, well, only for a little.” She rubs her hands together, then, “It’s just the two of us, up here.”

Catra wants to say no. She wants to say no because if she says yes, she’d be stripped completely naked, as this woman can somehow effortlessly pry her vault open as if she'd never locked it in the first place. She wants to say no because if she says yes, she’ll be giving in to something she was raised to believe is a fool’s fantasy; everything she’s gone through, discarded as if it never mattered.

Most of all, Catra wants to say no because it’s the only comfort she’s ever known, and to change that now, for one person— what does that make her?

“Yes.”

A fool.

An unmistakably, vulnerable fool.

Adora wholeheartedly expected a rejection; she may be royalty. She may have more symbolic power than the average person.

But the very concepts of wanting simply to want, and fulfillment for the sake of personal desire, well. Adora just doesn’t understand them. After all, how can one truly understand what they’ve never had?

“Are you sure?” Adora asks, her eyes darkening for a brief moment and then reverting to their sincere form. Though, Adora isn’t quite sure who she’s asking.

“I’m sure,” Catra says.

Adora begins raising her arms but pauses in mid-air, unsure if the verbal confirmation was resolute, or simply a byproduct of an unusual scenario. Catra’s gaze locks with Adora’s, and almost on instinct, Catra takes the other woman’s hands and places them on the side of her head.

She’s warm. Her hair reminds her of soft linens and the smoothness of freshly bathed skin. It has a unique almost ash-like scent to it; it’s clearly not from Bright Moon or any adjacent kingdom. Adora gently slides her fingers over to the first buckle holding her stranger’s mask in place. She unbuckles it, slowly, methodically, savoring the contact as she moves onto the second buckle. When she finishes, Adora allows herself a single moment of selfishness, longingly brushing her fingers along the woman’s head until her hands reach her face.

Catra can’t tell what’s worst: that she’s at the very center of the kingdom she’s supposed to be sabotaging, or that she’s—

She’s completely disarmed.

And yet…

And yet she’s never felt safer.

Catra doesn’t do anything. 

Catra simply can’t do anything, except stare into the blue orbs that so easily swept her up in their current and out into the open ocean. But this ocean is different from the one that plagues her dreams. This ocean is calm, serene, benevolent; it doesn’t pull her or push her anywhere she doesn’t want to go, nor does it force her beneath turbulent walls of water. It carries her, allows her to float and simply be, without restraints or urgency, without fear of consequence.

Catra breaks from her trance, and motions to the other woman’s mask, “May I?”

Adora doesn’t hesitate. “Go ahead,” she says, resolute.

And Catra does. Perhaps not methodically, perhaps with a slight shake of hesitation and a strange set of trembles at her core. But, she does, nonetheless. 

They’re both unmasked, now.

They lock eyes and then look up at the stars. Catra’s heart beats erratically, and even though she’s doing her very best to keep up a facade of indifference, she’s failing. And though she is enjoying her time here, and allowing herself a moment of calm, she can’t seem to shake the nagging feeling that something isn’t right. Maybe it’s the uncertainty.

Yes, that has to be it.

While Catra retreats to her little thought bubble, Adora’s busy counting as many stars as she can. She knows she’ll never finish counting. It’s still one of the few things that relaxes her without fail, unconditionally. She turns to her right and notices the stranger’s tight grip on the balcony barrier.

Adora reaches out to touch the woman’s shoulder. The woman retreats back at the last second, on instinct once more, except this time she faces Adora after the fact. Catra wasn’t even consciously aware of what transpired, but she is fairly certain that comforting gestures aren’t supposed to feel like needles on skin. She hugs herself, wraps her hands tightly around her arms, the only comfort she’s sought that’s never once bitten her. 

Why is she like this? More importantly, when was the last time she let anyone in her space like this, and didn’t come out with some sort of scar?

Never, she realizes.

Adora wants to say something now that she realizes the woman is in some form of distress by the way her eyes close tightly. When she tries to speak, the only thing that comes out is a hitched breath, and a defeating sigh.

_‘Sometimes all someone really needs is someone near. It’s okay to not know what to say or do, Adora. Being the princess doesn’t mean taking on the kingdom’s burdens all by yourself.’_

The memory of Glimmer comforting her after she failed to console one of the brave knights is one that has not come to mind for a long time. But she’ll always remember how she felt when the knight’s face fell after Adora told her she’s sure her beloved is in a better place now.

_“She killed people, your highness,” the knight said, “It may have been at war, but a life is still a life. That is a debt that cannot be repaid.” The knight smiled weakly and left without saying a word._

Catra closes her eyes for a moment. She takes a deep breath, blinks three times, and uncoils her fingers, leaving behind a faint trace of where her nails nearly broke skin. She locks eyes with the other woman, and the urge to flee courses through her veins. But…

Instead of retreating further, she relaxes her posture and shifts closer to Adora. 

_She won’t hurt me, Catra realizes._

Adora’s eyes widen in surprise. Maybe she could do this— maybe she could just simply be. Maybe all her stranger needed was a shoulder to lean on. If she did, in fact, need it.

“Your eyes are beautiful,” Adora says before she even realizes her lips have thrown her into the lion’s den. “I mean, I’ve said it before, but,” Adora stumbles, a subtle quiver on her lower lip, “I mean it, truly.”

Catra leans forward so that her upper half is out enough to stare straight at the ground. She jerks her head to stare at Adora and smiles as she reaches out with her left hand. Then, she pokes Adora’s forehead.

“Your eyes aren’t too bad either,” Catra says, and her smile grows, “for a citizen of Bright Moon.”

Oh, so it’s like that, Adora thinks.

“Well,” Adora grabs at Catra’s hand that’s still poking her forehead, but Catra is too quick, and avoids her easily. She raises an eyebrow and puts a hand on her hip, “I’d come up with something for you, but I don’t even know where you’re from,” Adora realizes in that moment that she knows absolutely nothing about her companion. Nothing, except, well, that she wakes something dormant, but persistent, inside of her.

Catra retreats into herself once more. No, she can’t give away where she’s from— she’s not even supposed to be doing whatever she is right now! What is she doing right now, anyway? Lady Weaver will have her head if she fails this mission— why even risk jeopardizing it? What’s worth risking it all? Her heart beats outside of her chest, her palms turn sweaty, and she realizes: she’s lost it all already.

Her autonomy? It belongs to Lady Weaver. Her safety? She’s never had it in the first place. Love? Catra cannot know what she’s never felt. She is nothing and will always be nothing: a stain on her kingdom and a footsoldier for those too entitled to do their own dirty work. The blood instead falls on her hands. No one with blood on their hands deserves love.

But as she wrestles with the two echoes bouncing off the thorned walls of her mind, she realizes she’s moved even closer to her blue-eyed wonder. It is second nature to her, like breathing: a flawless synchrony of natural instincts, as natural as the cycle of life itself. What is it about this girl that pulls her in? It must go beyond beauty: Catra’s seen many beautiful people in her short life. Most encounters happened on assignment in other lands. Why is she such an exception— what makes her so special?

“I— “ Catra stops. What makes her so special? “I’m not…” Catra’s eyes linger on Adora’s lips. 

What makes her so special?

“I’m from nowhere,” Catra finishes. _Idiot. Coward._

_What makes her so special?_

Adora looks on with curiosity sketched on her face, before disappointment settles on her insides. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to pry.” Adora looks down toward the ground beneath the balcony: a fall from here is a death sentence. She’s never focused on the darkness below before, but somehow it brings her comfort— like seeing it reminds her that there’s a point to it all, an ending worth clinging to light for. She smiles and looks at Catra.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Adora finally says, “But when you’re ready— if you ever trust me, I mean.” She looks at the ground again, then at the stars, and takes a shallow breath. “I’d really like to— I’d like to know you.”

It’s like an arrow piercing through her armor, leaving its mark on the left side of her chest, but there’s no blood and no wound, no searing pain or urge to scream.

_What makes her so special?_

“I…” Catra whispers. She hesitates. “I want to know you, too.”

Adora’s blood pools at her cheeks as she smiles with her entire body, her hands suddenly lax and her muscles, unclenched. What is this feeling, and why is it so terrifying? Why does she suddenly feel stripped, every part of her body exposed to the elements, but in the best way possible, like warm water and steam cradling her body, soft grass and cool dirt beneath her bare feet? Adora looks up at the stars once more, searching for guidance. It hits her then.

Maybe that’s why the darkness is so grounding: perhaps the things worth fighting for aren’t just among the stars, in grandiose but forsaken places she could never be. Perhaps the things worth having, the things worth making stories over, start out as nothing more than seeds lost in mounds of dirt, waiting to be found, cared for, nourished. And maybe chance is on her side. Adora holds out her hand, “Then I’ll start. I’m—”

“Adora? Adora are you up here?” A high-pitched voice echoes from the hall.

“Adora, everyone is looking for you! I know you’re up there!”

Adora? Adora. It sounds familiar.

Adora.

Wait— no, it isn’t. It can’t be.

Adora, Catra realizes. Of course. She should have known. Blonde hair, eyes like blue fire; impossibly earnest and beautiful; kind. Adora. She should have realized it sooner: by her formality and dueling prowess; by her knowledge of the castle. Adora showed her the balcony with pride, like it was the only home she was truly proud of, boastful of. What mere guest would do such a thing?

No one, Catra realizes. She’s no one, and this woman is Princess Adora of Bright Moon, daughter of King Grayskull.

And the one person Catra never wanted to hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pls no hurt me i promise there will be a happy ending......eventually :3...

**Author's Note:**

> They gay. They really gay. Did I mention they're GAY?
> 
> Chapter two will be out Soon™. I'll try to update this weekly, but I make no promises! 
> 
> Comments are appreciated! If you have feedback for me, I appreciate DMs :)
> 
> Once again, shoutout to Nuttyshake for being a great beta and lending me the brain cell. You rock <3


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